


The Secret Life of Bees

by pippiblondestocking



Category: Hunger Games Series - All Media Types, Hunger Games Trilogy - Suzanne Collins
Genre: Angst, Canon-Typical Violence, Explicit Language, F/M, Flashbacks, Healing, Healing Sex, Hurt/Comfort, Mild Language, Nightmares, Oral Sex, PTSD, Romance, Sex
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2012-06-09
Updated: 2012-07-05
Packaged: 2017-11-07 08:28:49
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 11
Words: 24,407
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/428967
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/pippiblondestocking/pseuds/pippiblondestocking
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>What will happen when Katniss finds she can no longer do something that used to define her? Can she find a new place for herself in the woods? How will she and Peeta make a new District 12 their home again? And how do Peeta and Katniss grow back together, emotionally and physically? Post-MJ, pre-Epilogue.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Suzie Blue

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Disclaimer: The Hunger Games belong to Ms. Suzanne Collins, Scholastic, and Lionsgate Entertainment. The Secret Life of Bees belongs to Sue Monk Kidd. Suzie Blue is by Ben Harper and the Innocent Criminals, and they belong to themselves (thanks for getting me through high school, guys. And yes, I know I’m dating myself).
> 
> Thanks to: SavannahHershey (my beta and fangirl-in-crime) and orea domina!
> 
> Rating: MA/explicit for mature language, implied violence, emotional distress, and explicit sexual situations.

_Won't you sing me the blues,_

_Won't you sing me the blues?_

_Sing me something my heart can use;_

_Misery loves a symphony._

Well, this is just _great_ , I think to myself, sulking in the tree branches. A huntress who can’t _hunt_.  That’s like a painter who can’t _paint_. A baker who can’t _bake_. A mother who can’t _love_. Heh. I laugh out loud. _Story of my so-called life_.  But I can’t hunt. I really can’t. And I’ve been trying to make a kill since I returned to District Twelve. (Which is now known simply as “Appalachia”—who the hell comes up with these names? Plutarch says it has something to do with the history of North America, but I think he’s talking out of his ass.) And every single goddamn time, I can’t. It’s like I’m—what would Haymitch call it?—oh right, _I’m cock-blocking myself_. So I just sit and hide in trees or in the underbrush, or hell, sometimes I just perch on a rock and watch the animals. One time I got so lost in thought watching the fish swim in the lake that I didn’t notice when the sun went down and the moon came up and I didn’t get home until dawn. But mostly, I just sit and watch and think, and then I think some more, and then when I raise my bow and set my arrow to catch my prey, my arm goes limp and my head throbs, right above my left brow. I’m pathetic. How am I going to survive if I can’t feed myself, feed my fam—heh. I don’t have a family anymore. It doesn’t matter if I survive or not. I’m starting to think that the animals in the forest are laughing at me. Losers.

_Does your face, your pretty face get lost in a crowd?_

_And you say no one's there_

_To hear you cry out loud--_

_What will you do, Suzie Blue?_

I return home empty-handed, the same way I have every afternoon since I was dumped in this forsaken hell hole three months ago, right before the dead of winter.  I put my hunting gear away in the “mudroom” and hang my father’s jacket on its proper hook. (I will never ever forgive the Capitol and Effie for making me learn all of the useless names for these useless rooms in this giant empty house. It makes me feel superficial.) I go upstairs (there are sixteen steps, in case anyone was wondering) and I throw myself in the shower. Full steam ahead! I joke to myself as the shower fogs up. I really, really hate being naked. Nothing good ever came of being naked. Before I can really think about it, I’m out of the shower, toweling off, and I catch a glimpse of myself in the mirror. At least my hair is finally one length, even if it does only graze my shoulders. My hair; my beautiful hair; my one true beauty. Flavius insists that it will grow back, but I think he’s full of shit. Even though I am still damp, I tug on a pair of jeans and a tee and shove my feet into my shoes. I can hear Greasy Sae downstairs, starting dinner, and I really don’t want to be late.

It doesn’t matter what Sae is cooking, because I am starving.  As usual, Haymitch stumbles into my living room completely hammered, and Peeta follows him quietly, rolling his eyes and trying to hide his laughter. We’ve been doing this every night since he got home, what, maybe a month or so ago? The company leaves something to be desired, but I am grateful nonetheless. Without Sae and Peeta, I’m likely to starve to death and Buttercup would eat my face off. But every night, Sae cooks us dinner, and every night (at least since he planted the primroses), Peeta joins me. Tonight is like any other night. After Sae leaves, we serve ourselves (and Haymitch, because he is consistently too drunk to function), and talk about our day. My day is by far the most dull. And pathetic. Always. Peeta always chuckles.

“Well, did you see anything new today? Any wildlife returning?” he asks excitedly (just like he does every other night).

“Lot of tracker jackers,” I answer, without even thinking. _Oops._ I know how much this is going to upset him. He nods and narrows his eyes and strokes his chin. I’m worried that he’s about to have an episode and there’s Haymitch, pouring his wine on his potatoes.

“Sucks to you.”

_Where did you learn to do that so well?_

_Where did you learn to do that so well?_

_I guess that would be like kiss and tell._

_If it's a secret, why did you show me?_

Unlike me, Peeta keeps himself busy. He bakes. He paints. He goes into town to help with the rebuilding efforts. He’s helping with the plans, but I know he’d rather be in his kitchen. But this work gives Peeta a sense of purpose, a sense of value, a sense of worth, and most importantly, belonging. He talks with everyone in town and always makes cookies for the families returning. This labor, this work—it fills him out. He has broad shoulders and muscles and a strong straight back, and sometimes when I look at him I get this feeling in the pit of my stomach. And he’s still growing, so now he’s even taller than me. But now, maybe I think his time in town is keeping his mind off shitty things, and I’ve gone and brought them up again. I’m so dumb.

He puts his fork down and takes a sip of his wine. It looks like he’s musing about something in his head. “It’s funny you should mention that today, Katniss,” Peeta says finally. “This afternoon, I was talking to Thom about the forest and getting some more lumber, and he told me that the men are having a tough time getting wood because they keep getting stung by feral tracker jackers. Without the Capitol to keep the population in check, they’ve been running wild.  It’s becoming a big problem.” And then he looked at me with those baby blue eyes and I am overwhelmed with guilt.

“Sucks,” I reply, finishing my wine in one gulp. We finish the dishes in silence and let Haymitch sleep it off in his chair before heading to the dining room. Every night, we work on the Tribute book. I write something, he draws something, and together, we remember. Some nights are harder than others. This is one of those nights.

_B_ u _t you’re far away from the love you used to hold,_

_Don't sit and watch your self  grow old--_

_The day is new, Suzie Blue,_

_The day is new, Suzie Blue._

“Katniss, what’s wrong?” Peeta asks, biting his lower lip. I’m looking at his hands, his beautiful, calloused hands; the hands of a baker and a painter and a lover…

“Nothing,” I say, smoothing down the page. _Think unsexy thoughts, Katniss, think unsexy thoughts._ I blow on it to help the ink dry. _Worst. Seduction. Ever_. I think in my brain. I am flirting subconsciously, but I’m doing it really, really badly.

“Nope, something is wrong, what’s bothering you?” Goddammit Peeta, why do you have to be so _good_ and _nice_ when I’m such a bitch?

I look up at him. He’s propped up on his elbows, blue eyes looking right at me

“I’m shit for hunting, Peeta. What good is a hunter who can’t hunt? I’m lame. I’m barren. I’M GOING TO DIE ALONE WITH MY CATS.” He smirks and pushes some golden hair out of his eyelashes.

“I think you’re really jumping the gun with the cats thing, Katniss. You only have one cat. And you’re the best hunter I know. That District Twelve has ever known—“

“I’m going to die alone by starving to death because I can’t take care of myself because I’m not a functional human being.” He shakes his head.

“Nope, wrong again.  You’re not going to die alone. You can’t die alone. You have me.”

Oh God, now we’re going to play Twenty Questions. At some point, every night, our conversation devolves into Real, Not Real, and I want to drink all the wine.

_Real life has let you down,_

_Real life has let you down._

_Someone stripped the jewel from your crown_

_Everybody owes somebody something._

“I’m going to die alone,” I hiss under my breath.

“Not real,” Peeta hums. “I’m going to be there with you, because we protect each other.”

“Real,” I gulp. Now he’s holding my hand and rubbing it and my God, my hand’s on fire… “Because we take of care each other.”

“Real,” he says, never letting go of my hand. “Because we need one another to survive.”

“Real,” I mutter quietly, gazing at his calloused hands. “Because we lo—“ I choke on my own words. I look down at the book. We’ve just finished Glimmer. He made her hair look so shiny. Peeta knows what I was going to say and just smiles.

“I’ll see you tomorrow morning,” he says, and lets go of my hand. “Sleep, okay?” It’s never “ _sleep tight, sweet dreams_ ” with us, it’s always just “ **try to sleep for the love of all that is good and holy, okay**?”

I nod grimly. We’re so full of shit. “You, too. You know how to find me.” It’s his turn to nod, and then he’s out like a thief in the night. Heh. Sleep. Sleep is overrated. I walk by a snoozing Haymitch on my couch, and hope that Buttercup eats his face off.

_Kissing from heaven in your arms_

_And we'll make love to the memories_

_They will always see us through, Suzie Blue._

_The day is new, Suzie Blue,_

_The day is new, Suzie Blue._


	2. Beloved One

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Katniss has a rotten nightmare, and Peeta is there to comfort her. What’s bothering Katniss?

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Disclaimer: The Hunger Games belong to Ms. Suzanne Collins, Scholastic, and Lionsgate Entertainment. The Secret Life of Bees belongs to Sue Monk Kidd. Beloved One is again by Ben Harper & The Innocent Criminals (you can find it on Burn to Shine, along with Suzie Blue). (There’s a lot of Ben Harper on my Katniss/Peeta playlist, btdubs.)
> 
> Thanks to: SavannahHershey, my beta and fangirl-in-crime, and orea domina!
> 
> A/N: I feel like Katniss’ nightmares in the epilogue are one of the most important details in the story, but that her hope overcomes her fears with the help of Peeta. This is them trying to work it out together. Thank you for your reviews, I really appreciate every word of support and criticisms!

_We have both been here before—_

_Knockin' upon love's door,_

_Begging for someone to let us in._

_Knowing this we can agree to keep each other company,_

_Never to go down that road again_.

Sleep is for the weak, I’ve decided.  I can’t sleep. I haven’t slept since they tried to wean me off the morphling. I usually come to, tangled in my blankets, freezing to death but breaking out in a vicious cold sweat. I’m a hot mess.  Oh, and to make it even sexier, I’m usually screaming and thrashing about, but I’m not kicking unseen demon ass and taking unseen demon names—they’re taking me. _I’m a winner._

Tonight, I fall into bed, and hope that the red wine and tryptophan in my stomach allow me to get a few hours of sleep. Food comas are the best, I think. Real comas suck, but they beat dealing with reality. As I start to nod off, I can see Peeta’s window through my own. His light is on. I think he’s painting. Maybe he’s raging. I know that he has nightmares, too. Maybe he’s seducing someone new. _Hell if I know_.

_My beloved one,_

_My beloved one,_

_Your eyes shine through me--_

_You are so divine to me,_

_Your heart has a home in mine._

I’m in the forest. The earth is hot and damp beneath my feet from the late summer sun. The leaves above are lit by its rays, and the light is translucent and green and I feel like one with the forest. I’m finally back in my element. I sense some quick movement about ten yards away, behind an old felled tree. It’s a doe. But I don’t see a young deer, I see dinner. I see a leather jacket. I see survival. It’s not me or the deer, and I know it’s an unfair fight. It’s so young and innocent, likely suckling at its mother’s teat that very morning. And I’m going to kill it. It’s going to be awesome. Awesome to feel that hot blood on my hands and feels its last breath go out against my arrow. And so I set my bow, and aim my arrow, and let the taut string go. All I can hear is the sound of the arrow through the wind, and then it sears into the doe’s flesh. It crumples behind the log. I run over as quietly as I can, excitedly peering down to examine my kill. But it isn’t a doe. It’s Rue. And I’ve just shot her through the stomach.

_We won't have to say a word --_

_With a touch all shall be heard,_

_When I search my heart it's you I find._

_My beloved one,_

_My beloved one,_

_My beloved one._

“RUE!!!” I scream frantically, scrambling over the tree to come to her side. Her eyes—her sad, wide, deep-brown, doe eyes—look back at me with fear and horror. Her tiny body is twitching beneath me, but she can’t move, because my arrow is now a spear that has pinned her to the ground. I’m screaming, I’m crying, I’m tearing at the earth to free her. I don’t even think I’m yelling real words. I’ve become an Avox, guttural and tongue-less. I’m screaming throaty syllables and sounds and I can feel Rue fading beneath me.

“Katniss, how could you? Life is not yours to use and take freely,” Rue says sweetly—probably with her last breath. “It’s not yours to take-- does life even mean anything to you anymore?” And now she can’t speak because blood is gurgling out of her mouth and eyes and ears and OH GOD ALL THE BLOOD. I don’t even have time to get flowers, because the earth opens up and swallows her whole. I find my tongue.

“RUE! RUE! COME BACK! I’M SO SORRY! I THOUGHT YOU WERE A DEER!” But that’s just it—I saw her as an animal, not even a human being, just something to sustain me and give me life. I can’t even distinguish between human and animal anymore. And then, just as I feel the earth swallowing me up, I come to.

It’s not even as nice day as I come to. I find myself at the other end of my bed, swaddled in damp blankets, dripping with cold sweat, and my throat hurts. My hands are shaking as I peer out from behind my blanket. The sky is grey. I can hear rain on the window and the wind shaking the trees. The wind tells me that spring is giving way to summer.  I let the blanket fall from my face, and I see Peeta, sitting in my rocking chair, judging me.

_You were meant for me,_

_I believe you were sent to me,_

_From a dream straight into my heart._

_Hold your body close to me,_

_You mean most to me--_

_We will keep each other safe from harm._

“GET OUT!” I shriek, pulling the blanket back over my head. “GET THE FUCK OUT. I’M NOT PLAYING THIS BULLSHIT TODAY.”

I hear his footsteps head toward the door, and I hear the door swing shut. I’m relieved. I think he’s left. Left me here in my misery, all alone, just like it should be. And then I hear the lock turn.

“I’m not leaving, Katniss. You’re a wreck.” Peeta is still in my room, leaning against the doorframe. “Greasy Sae came over to make breakfast, and when she heard you screaming, she came and got me and then she left. And now we’re here.”

I don’t know what to say to him. I’m pissed. I want him to leave. I want to sit here in my anger and wallow in my pity and he just won’t let me. Five minutes pass. He’s still standing at my door. I come out from my covers.

_My beloved one,_

_My beloved one,_

_My beloved one,_

_My beloved one._

“It’s Rue, Peeta, it’s Rue… I killed her, in my nightmare. It’s… my fault she’s dead, anyway,” I whisper. I don’t want to say it too loud. I’m admitting it to myself for the first time in a long time.

Peeta shakes his head. “Not real, Katniss. You tried to save her. You buried her. You sang to her. You thanked her district. Real.”

I shrug, letting the blanket fall away from my shoulders. My skin comes into contact with the cold air. It suddenly occurs to me that I’m practically naked. I grab the blanket and wrap it around myself. Peeta hasn’t left the door. But now he steps gingerly toward my bed. His eyes look muddled and confused, so I tense up. He stretches his arms out toward me, and I expect the worst.

_My beloved one,_

_My beloved one,_

_My beloved one,_

_My beloved one._

But instead I find myself falling into his arms. “Do you want a hug?” he says glumly as I wrap myself around him.

“Yes,” I muffle into his neck. Peeta is strong and warm and steady and so comfortable… this is the first hug we’ve had since we were in the tunnels in the Capitol. He feels like the old Peeta again, not a hollow shell of a boy, but a man. He feels like a man. I look and feel like a twelve year old girl, and now I’m wailing into his welcoming shoulders like a child. And at the same time, I’m strangely aroused.  He smells really nice, like rising yeast and wood chips. And then I remember why he’s here. And why he’s returning my hug, nearly crushing my ribs but not quite.

_My beloved one,_

_My beloved one,_

_My beloved one,_

_My beloved one._ __


	3. Chapter 3: Ballerina

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Summary: Peeta comforts Katniss after a nightmare, and she opens up to him about a new weakness.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Disclaimer: The Hunger Games belong to Ms. Suzanne Collins, Scholastic, and Lionsgate Entertainment. The Secret Life of Bees belongs to Sue Monk Kidd. Ballerina belongs to Leona Naess, and I use it because it reminds me of Katniss and Peeta’s relationship in Mockingjay where she realizes that she loves him and cannot have him. (Ugly sobbing.)
> 
> Thanks to: SavannahHershey, my beta and fangirl-in-crime, and orea domina (and check out her story, A Thousand Kisses Deep)!
> 
> A/N: Thank you as always for the reviews and kind words. I know it’s a bit AU/OOC—I just can’t see Katniss returning to the hunt after the Games. And I’m trying to heat things up—just kind of slowly. I’m not sure myself how quickly Peeta and Katniss grow back together, and I want them to take their time.

_I'll never feel the weight of your hands_

_Inside mine like diamonds--_

_Lace-so fine, ballerina._

_Cupcake and my earthquake_

_Wakes me from my sleep that_

_Never comes, are you breathing_

_Waiting for me?_

 

“Come back to me,” Peeta coos against my forehead, and I pull back.

“Always, Peeta, always,” I mumur and look into his eyes, and I see that they’re not dead—they’re tortured. He knows what I’m going through, and it’s killing him that he can’t fix it. “Tell me what happened.” He leans his chin on my forehead. He has stubble now. I can’t stop thinking about how sexy stubble is on Peeta. I pull back and bite my lip. This part sucks. The talking part sucks. I’m no good at it. Dr. Aurelius says I need to talk to myself more. I tell him I think he’s crazy and he’s trying to make me go batshit crazy.

_I didn't really want you,_

_But I want you now--_

_Was so foolish of me,_

_Feel you tumbling down_

_Into that empty room._

_The lights went out,_

_I want to rescue-- want to scream out loud._

I tell him about my nightmare, calmly recounting all the details. Our breathing has synced up, and I can feel our hearts beating as one, and I know that Peeta suffers from the same nightmares every night. I tell him about the mutts, and I feel his body harden and I worry that he’s gone to a bad place, and that I’ve triggered a hijacking. But he just holds on tighter, so I tell him about everyone I see in my dreams. Prim and Rue and Thresh and Clove and Glimmer and Foxface and Cato and Boggs and Johanna and Finnick and Mags and Beetee and my mother and my father and Madge and Delly and Gale and his parents and all of the children in the Capitol and suddenly everyone blurs and I can’t see through my tears or articulate words through my cries. So he just wraps his arms around my back, and lets me sob into his collarbone. He’s got great bone structure. Peeta lets me come to.

 _I_ _didn't think I needed you_

_But I need you now--_

_Was so empty in me,_

_Feel you crashing down_

_Into the empty world._

_The music stops,_

_I want to rescue-- want to scream out loud_

_"You will always be mine."_

“Peeta, it’s like when I see them in my nightmares, they’re animals. I can’t even see them as people. It’s like I’m losing my humanity…” I’ve never even admitted this to myself, and now I’m telling Peeta. He nods. His eyes are so full of sadness. I can’t stop talking. I have word vomit and it won’t stop coming up. “Peeta… during the Games, I lost the ability to distinguish between animal and human. Everyone just became… the animal. And I was hunting them…”

“Not real, Katniss. Not real. You never lost yourself, you never lost your humanity. Don’t think that they took that away from you. Don’t let them win,” he says, holding my face in his hands. “I have to tell myself every goddamn day that they didn’t take that from me. That they tried in vain to take my humanity away from me. They didn’t. And that I am still me. I am still Peeta Mellark. You are still Katniss Everdeen. We are alive. We survive. We are still ourselves. Battered, bruised, and broken. But we’re still here. Don’t let them take that away from you.” His eyes and face are so sincere. I believe him.

_The room spins,_

_Pull you from me--_

_My body burns._

_Tell me all the rainbows,_

_The colors that the rain throws._

_Ballerina, dance softly,_

_She knows when to come only_

_When she's called on, slowly coming to—_

“That’s a good pep talk,” I laugh quietly. He’s right. I have to keep living, or the Capitol wins. He nods, his nose touching mine. He strokes my cheek. Having a complete and utter breakdown isn’t so bad after all.

“Katniss, what’s bothering you? And don’t give me a smart-ass answer.”

I have to be honest with him. It’s heartbreaking for me. The Capitol has taken something away from me, something I can never get back. But I have my Peeta. I have to be honest with him. He’s the only person who really understands, the only one I can really trust. I’m just afraid to disappoint him.

“Peeta, I can’t hunt anymore,” I finally say numbly. He pulls me closer to him. I start crying again. Hot fucking train wreck mess. He rubs my back. I’m not supposed to be turned on. I am _. I’m so weak._

“That’s okay,” he says finally. But now I want to tell him why.

_I didn't really want you,_

_But I need you--_

_Was so foolish of me,_

_Feel you tumbling down_

_Into that empty room._

_The lights went out_

_Want to rescue-- want to scream out loud._

“I CAN’T HUNT ANYMORE BECAUSE EVERY TIME I TRY TO KILL SOMETHING, IT’S LIKE I’M IN THE GAMES ALL OVER AGAIN AND I CAN’T BEAR TO TAKE ANYMORE LIFE. I JUST CAN’T DO IT. HUMAN, ANIMAL-- IT’S ALL THE SAME TO ME NOW AND I CAN’T DO IT. IT’S NOT MY RIGHT, IT’S NOT MY PLACE, AND IT’S NOT MY CALLING TO TAKE LIFE AT WILL FOR MY PLEASURE AND SATISFACTION. NO MORE.” Now I am in full melt-down mode. I am plastered against Peeta’s chest and it feels great, because every time he draws a breath, I feel him expand with life against me. _In and out, in and out._

I compose myself. Kind of. I look into his eyes. They are warm now. He brushes my stringy wet hair out of my eyes. He cracks a smile.

“Sounds legitimate, Katniss.” But I’m not done yet. So I keep rambling.

_I didn't think I wanted you,_

_But I want you now--_

_Was so empty in me,_

_Feel you crashing down,_

_Into the empty world_

_The music stops,_

_I want to rescue-- want to scream out loud,_

_"You will always be mine."_

“I just can’t do it. Every life I take won’t bring back the ones that I lost and took. And I just feel like when I’m hunting, I’m losing my humanity.” _He nods, he gets it_. I have uncontrollable word vomit.

“I used to love hunting—how close I was to the earth, to the animal, to my father, to Gale. And the Capitol took that joy away from me, it took that interconnectedness and sense of belonging away from me. Hunting became a curse, not a gift. And I’ll never get it back.” I feel so badly—here’s Peeta, comforting me, and I’m talking about Gale. What the hell is wrong with me?

“Real.”

“I want to be a whole person again, but I’m never going to find myself if I force myself to do something that I’ve come to hate and strips me of my humanity.”

“Real. You don’t have to love it anymore. They turned your greatest talent into a weapon against you. So don’t let them use it anymore.” Peeta is a fucking sage. A national treasure. I’ve never been more aroused.

_So, so sorry--_

_Just come back for me now._

_So, so sorry--_

_Just come back to me now._

_Or soon…_

I swallow. Hard. I’m afraid that if I stop talking, he’ll leave. And then I’ll be alone with my thoughts and a cat that wants to eat my face off. “I’m… I’m not going to hunt anymore, Peeta.” But now that I’ve said it, I am overwhelmed with the anxiety. How will I survive and take care of myself if I can’t hunt for my own food?

“Good.”  He hasn’t let me go yet. This is going swimmingly. “But? Say it, Katniss—admit it.” He sounds like Dr. Aurelius. My heart is aching. My voice is breaking. Acceptance is the key to recovery.

“How will I survive?” I cry, letting more hot, wet tears spill onto his cheek. “How will I take care of myself? How will I take care of you? How will I survive? How will we survive? I CAN’T SURVIVE WITHOUT YOU.”

Oh God, that’s it. I sound like a teenage fangirl fawning over a Victor in the Capitol. He’s going to think I sound like a ridiculous fool. He’s going to pull away at any moment. But he doesn’t. He cradles me against his chest, rubbing my back. I can feel his well-kept fingernails under the thin fabric of my tank top. _THINK UNSEXY THOUGHTS_. Finally, Peeta says something.

“Katniss, you don’t have to survive alone. You have me.”

“Real.”

“We take care of each other.”

“Real.”

“I’m a baker-- how are we going to starve? We’re not. I can bake enough bread for the both of us.”

“Real.” I’m hugging him like I have never hugged anyone before. How silly of me to think that Peeta was going to let us starve. _Maybe I’ve already started to lose my mind_. And just like that, he holds me. He holds me for as long as I need him to.

_I didn't think I wanted you,_

_But I want you now,_

_Was so foolish of me,_

_Feel you tumbling down_

_Into that empty room._

_The lights went out,_

_Wanted to rescue-- want to scream out loud…_

“Peeta?” I whisper into his ear. He grunts. “I didn’t mean it… about Gale. I just… miss my best friend and hunting partner. But the Capitol took him away, too. In another life, he was another person. And he’s gone, both by circumstance and by choice. But I don’t need him to survive. I need you.”

For awhile, Peeta is quiet. But then I feel him nod. “I understand. Always.”

“Real,” I breathe into his neck. His fingers are curling in my short dark hair. I feel like I can finally pull away. I hold his face between my hands, feeling his new stubble with a smile creeping across my face, scarlet blooming on my cheeks. I see scarlet speading on his cheeks, where my hands hold him fast. When I look to the window, the sun is setting in the west. It’s Peeta’s favorite time of day. “What time is it?”

Peeta snorts. “It’s late. It’s dinnertime.”

“How long have we been here?”

“As long as it takes.” He kisses the salty tears off my cheeks, and I feel his eyelashes against my skin, and my stomach turns wildly.

Wordlessly, we get up off the end of me bed, and we head downstairs. Peeta makes us breakfast for dinner. Haymitch does not come over, nor Greasy Sae. Just me and Peeta. It’s not so bad. Just strange. We clean up. We don’t work on the book tonight. He holds me on the couch, in front of a roaring fire. Peeta kisses my forehead and goes home. I try to sleep, wrapped up on my couch. I don’t know how well I slept, but at least my dreams were forgettable at best, and I woke up feeling as though I found something.

_I didn't think I needed you,_

_But I need you now--_

_Was so empty in me,_

_Feel you tumbling down_

_Into that empty room._

_The lights went out,_

_I want to rescue—want to scream out loud_

_"That you will always be mine."_ __


	4. That Teenage Feeling

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Katniss tries to find a new hobby and find more ways to be with Peeta in the wake of her confession.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Disclaimer: The Hunger Games belong to Ms. Suzanne Collins, Scholastic, and Lionsgate Entertainment. The Secret Life of Bees belongs to Sue Monk Kidd. That Teenage Feeling belongs to Neko Case (and I recommend highly that you check out her body of work. It’s like she’s channeling Katniss Everdeen).
> 
> Thanks to: SavannahHershey, my beta and fangirl-in-crime, and orea domina!
> 
> Rating: MA for mature language, violence, and explicit sexual situations.
> 
> A/N: I think it’s very difficult, if not impossible, for Katniss to hunt like she used to before the Games, after everything she’s been through. In particular, I think it really resonates with her when Gale tells her that hunting people is just like hunting animals. I also love how she and Peeta discuss how callously and recklessly they’ve taken human life in Mockingjay. I think she’s grown up and changed, and while she loves the idea of hunting, she just can’t bring herself to do it, because she is forever scarred. So she needs to find something else to do—which is what she is trying to do here. Katniss is also scared of her continued attraction to Peeta, so she’s dealing with teenage hormones, too. Oy. Thanks for your reviews and support—please read and enjoy!

_Now that we've met,_

_We can only laugh at these regrets._

I awake in my bed, all alone (save my covers). _Sucks to me_ , I think. I try to remember what I’d been dreaming about. Nothing in particular. I grope the side of the bed next to me. _Nope, still alone_. I swing my feet over the side of the bed and hit the hardwood running. I run to my shower and turn the hot water on full blast, even if it is already eighty degrees outside and humid and muggy. I want everything to burn off of me and evaporate into hot mist like nothing and then go away when I turn the fan on. I can’t face him after yesterday. If I see him, I’ll become a hot mess, and I’m too proud for that. _Nay, too good for that_. He’s not a saint. But he’s pretty damn close. Now I’m thinking that I need a cold shower when I think about his body against mine. _THINK UNSEXY THOUGHTS._ I know that I have to face him at breakfast. For some reason my cheeks burn at this idea and my body flushes. Stupid body. He’s so pretty. He makes me want to touch myself the way I so want him to touch me. I think hot showers should be illegal for the time being. I step out, I gasp (as I always do) at the cool air, and I dry off. I brush my hair today, and spray something in it that Octavia said would make it stronger AND grow faster. _The Capitol and its promises._

_Common as a winter cold,_

_They're telephone poles._

Making my way downstairs, I decide that breakfast smells pretty great. Frying meat generally turns me on. I’m happy that Sae has returned. I’m happy that Peeta made biscuits. For the first time in my life, I’m rendered pretty speechless. I come into the kitchen, and Peeta is crawling around on all fours, playing with Sae’s granddaughter. She’s simple, but loves playing with Peeta. He catches her in his arms and showers her with sweet kisses. I’m not jealous. _AT ALL._ He reminds me of the way my father used to play with Prim and me, and my mother would smile at us.Sae says something about being glad that I’m not screaming this morning, and she leads her granddaughter out by the hand. Peeta is still panting on the floor, leaning against the cupboards. I lose my voice, again.

“Good morning,” he says pointedly.

I choke back everything. “Morning.” Am I always this difficult? Likely. I’m not one for the mornings.

“Sleep okay?”

“Okay. And you?” He smiles, and it breaks my heart. He’s going to say something really nice.

“I slept,” he says after a moment, his eyes clouding as he cracks his knuckles. A smirk creeps across his face.

_They follow each other, one, after another--_

_After another._

Usually, Greasy Sae and her little granddaughter stay with us for breakfast, and Haymitch falls through the door, desperate for sustenance after his latest bender. We’ve done this every morning since Peeta came home. This morning, it’s just the two of us. You could cut the tension with a butterknife. We always have one cup of coffee each, and I am careful to remember that he doesn’t take sugar. I like having some sweetness in my life.

“What are you--“ I begin to say, and Peeta cuts me off.

“It’s no good pretending that yesterday didn’t happen, Katniss,” Peeta says, buttering his biscuit with all seriousness.

“It did,” I admit quietly, “I won’t deny it.”

“Today is most emphatically NOT a normal day.”

“It could be…” and I trail off into my coffee. What is it with Peeta always making points? Before I know it, he’s on my side of the table, grasping my hands so tightly that I think blood flow is an issue. His eyes are all doom and gloom. I’ve fucked up again.

“Today isn’t a day like any other day that you’ve had here,” he says harshly, “What have you done today that makes you feel normal? Feel proud? Feel like you're a part of _something_?” I put my sausage down.

“I DON’T KNOW, I JUST WOKE UP. LAY OFF, ALREADY.” I immediately regret my last words. He doesn’t deserve to get yelled at. I lean forward and brush my lips against his. He tastes like butter. This isn’t fair. And then out of nowhere, he laughs. Here I am, terrified that I’ll break him, and he’s laughing. He is blushing. I am making him blush.

_But now my heart is green as weeds,_

_Grown to outlive their season._

“You taste like sausage,” Peeta gets out between his laughs. “Your technique leaves something to be desired.” At this moment I push away from the table to bolt, but Peeta holds me tight. “Seriously. What do you want to do today?” My head hangs limply in my hand. I can’t think of anything to say except that I really like staying in his arms, where he keeps the nightmares away. In fact, it should be strange that I want to stay in his arms; until yesterday, we hadn’t made any physical contact since the rebellion. And now I wanted to suck his face off at the kitchen table. For shame.

“I want to contribute, to give back,” I answer slowly. He takes a sip of his coffee—his arms are so long that they can reach across the table—and rubs my back at the same time. “I don’t want to hunt,” I add weakly, for good measure. _Stop this right now, Katniss Everdeen_ , I scold myself. _Don’t let him in and make you vulnerable_. _But what if I kind of like it?_ I push those thoughts from my mind.

A smile flickers briefly cross Peeta’s face as he furrows his brow and loosens his grip around my back, then pressing his forehead to mine. “You’re more than a hunter, Katniss Everdeen. You know more about the forest and its secrets than anyone.”

_Not more than my father._ I swallow, hard. Peet _a might never understand my connection and relationship to the forest. He’s such a city-slicker_. His eyes are staring into my own so earnestly—he’s searching for an answer. _He’s searching for a sign that I am alive, that I’m alive and kicking_.

_And nothing comforts me the same_

_As my brave friend who says:_

“I’ll find something,” I finally sigh, “Flowers, berries, and shit.” He nods, and pulls his plate over to our side of the table, never letting go of my hand. We do the dishes in silence. I finally have the courage to tell him that his biscuits are better than anything we had in the Capitol.

“Thanks,” he says, “good to hear.” In this moment, I don’t want Peeta to leave. He always goes into town in the morning. Then he comes home and bakes, or he paints. I have not seen his new works of art, but I can see him working on them from my windows. Today, I just want to stay with him. I have no desire to go into the woods and find myself—or this evening’s dinner—and I just want to stay by his side. Like a sick puppy. Or a seagull and its rock. He pulls me closer to him. He smells like breakfast. “I’ll be here when you get back,” he nuzzles into my neck. To think, just a short time ago we regarded one another as—what are those things that Haymitch rambles on about?—oh yeah, _lepers_. And now we’re molesting each other in the kitchen.

_"I don't care if forever never comes_

_'Cause I'm holding out for that teenage feeling."_

I nod, hard. “I know. I just don’t want to be alone.” His sad eyes understand me. He nods, touching his eyelashes to mine. I don’t want to be alone in the forest, surrounded by my past and loved ones lost and terrible deeds that I’ve done, consoled only by my own empty words.

“It’s only a few hours,” he sighs. “Let’s call it an early day, come home, and relax.” I start to dry heave into his shoulder. _I’m an attractive one_ , I think.

“This is what healing feels like,” he adds quietly, breathing into my hair. “It won’t be so bad. You know where to find me.” I nod. Peeta is obvious. He’ll be in town, laughing it up with his friends, I can hear him from a mile away. That’s how amazing his laugh is.

_All the loves we had, all we ever knew--_

_Did they fill me with so many secrets_

_That keep me from loving you?_

_'Cause it's hard..._ __


	5. She's Only Happy in the Sun

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Katniss spends some time in the woods and finds a new way to spend her hours while bringing justice to Peeta.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Disclaimer: The Hunger Games belong to Ms. Suzanne Collins, Scholastic, and Lionsgate Entertainment. The Secret Life of Bees belongs to Sue Monk Kidd. She’s Only Happy in the Sun is by Ben Harper (found on Diamonds on the Inside. I just love him.).
> 
> Thanks to: SavannahHershey, my beta and fangirl-in-crime, and orea domina!
> 
> Ships: Katniss/Peeta, (Haymitch/Effie, Delly/Thom, Gale/OC)
> 
> Rating: MA for mature language, violence, and explicit sexual situations.
> 
> A/N: Do you guys want more frequent updates? I have the first thirty (!) chapters written, and if once every three days isn’t getting the job done, let me know! Smut happens in Chapter 9 and it’s pretty much a lemon-fest after that (well, sex and ugly sobbing). TELL PIPPI!
> 
> Well, Katniss finally finds her calling! Lots of action and sexual frustration in this one—let me know what you think! (Like Gale said, Katniss only smiles in the woods, so I tried to find a new place for her in the forest.) Thanks so much for your constructive criticisms and reviews—more Peeta and Katniss to come!

_I know you may not want to see me_

_On your way down from the clouds._

I’m lying on my stomach on a warm rock by the lake, watching the fish swim beneath me. I can feel my skin starting to heat and peel from sun low in the spring sky, and I rather like it, because it reminds me that I’m alive. It reminds me of my father. “The girl with the golden skin,” he’d call me in the summer. I would get so dark, my mother would douse me in herbs and aloe, and cool milk, and I’d only get more golden. My father loved it; my skin was like his skin. Now Prim, she couldn’t go out in the sun without a cover, or her skin would become beet red for days on end, and she’d wail into my mother’s lap as the cool milk sucked the sun out. I can’t think about that right now. I want to catch some fish for dinner—I don’t feel as bad about fishing. Or at least I thought that I didn’t. Every time I tried to catch a fish, I cock-blocked myself and scared the fish away, its silver and gold scales swimming away from me as fast as their little fins could carry them.  _LET ME CONTRIBUTE, ASSHOLES._ YOU CAN’T YELL AT FISH, I remind myself.

Into the woods I go. As I slither along, like a snake on its belly, I remind myself of the name of every leaf from every tree, and try to remember its use. I know a stream, deep and cool, with fish literally sitting in a barrel. It pains me to think of them, stripping them of their lives, and then I think of their sweet flesh on a wooden stick, and I become determined. Yum. Om nom nom. Peeta will be so pleased. I can feel splinters and leaves digging into my bare feet, but I have no desire to stop or pluck out the wood. The little daggers help me feel. I feel alive in these trees. When I arrive at the stream, I see the fish literally swimming toward me, and my heart sinks. I can’t kill them in the warm spring sun, when we’re all so warm and our bellies are so full. I want to kick myself in the head.

_Would you hear me if I told you_

_That my heart is with you now?_

I wade into the water, stripping myself of all of my clothes, ducking under the water quickly. Despite how hot it gets here, the water never warms up. Such a buzzkill. Under the water, I scream aloud, almost sucking water into my lungs in a desperate sub-conscious effort to end it all. Some of the fish look at me, giving me the side-eye. _This chick is a nut_. Feels good to scream. And no one can hear my weakness, bwah ha ha. I’m the worst covert hunter ever, I think. I keep telling them where I am and what I’m thinking and why I’m so sad.I come up for air, and then I wade over closer to the shore. I start digging into the cool, slippery mud. The water clouds, and I lose sight of my goal. I grasp it before it grasps me—a little crawfish. I drop it in my bucket. I can probably eat two dozen, Peeta maybe three. I have a lot of work to do.

The work itself is easy—digging in the mud for little crawdads. But they can be fast, and their claws can snip your little fingers. After catching four dozen, my fingers are raw and my back aches from bending over and my back is sunburned. But I feel alive. Naked. But alive.  And I caught dinner without killing anything. Such a kind thought. The crawfish don’t look too psyched, but I can’t think about that now. My crawfish are so simple and happy and crawling over one another to catch the last rays of the day’s sun. And then I hear it. The very faint humming far above my head. I don’t want to look up. I can’t fucking handle it right now. It’s a tracker jacker nest.

_She’s only happy in the sun;_

_She’s only happy in the sun._

But I have to deal with them. I don’t make any sudden movements. I just allow my gaze to drift up. These tracker jackers have become lazy in the forest, bathed in the spring sun. I am angry at them—they have taken so much away from Peeta, and now they seek to take away this beautiful day. Why did the Capitol create them, anyway? Why distort nature beyond the point of no return? Is it about control? About manipulation? Retribution? Power? All of the above? I realize that I need to breathe. The tracker jackers have not taken notice of me—I guess that I still “blend” in the forest. Comforting. Some things never change, I suppose.

But that nest still remains. As I peer up, shrouded by the running waters, I see that the nest is clinging to a very old, weakened branch. Tracker jackers are so inbred that they’ve lost common sense, I surmise. I move out of the water silently, creeping onto the stream’s bank. They haven’t noticed me yet. I reach for my bow and arrow. I brought them out of habit, mostly. Like a safety blanket that can pierce someone’s skin and kill them at a moment’s notice. _That’s healthy_ , I think. What did my dad say about tracker jackers again? I need to remember. I sit down, bow and arrow between my legs, thinking about Peeta, and I try to remember my father. Tracker jackers—as rule—dislike the cold. And they dislike water. They can’t swim. And their nests are so hollow that they fill with water very quickly and sink. They hate rain, because they can’t do anything about it. They loathe smoke. And just like that, I have an idea. I can’t see any tracker jackers buzzing around the nest—they must be within.

_Did you find what you were after?_

_The pain and the laughter_

_Brought you to your knees._

I hide behind an old musty fallen tree. I see the mushrooms, and think they’d go great with the crawfish. _One thing at a time, Katniss_ , I remind myself _. You aren’t starving anymore, per say. Easy does it. Whoa nelly_. _FOCUS_. I nestle myself around the log, and I take aim at the old decrepit branch holding the next to the tree. I take aim with my bow and arrow, barely drawing breath. I let the string go, and from a safe distance I watch the branch twist from the tree, and I watch the nest fall into the water. The tracker jackers are so brainless, they don’t even have time to register what’s happening before their nest has been submerged in water, and starts sinking. I imagine each little cell-hive filling with waters, its inhabitant drowning a terrible death. The humming-buzzing becomes too loud to ignore, and I can hear their collective panic as they succumb to their chilly deaths. The nest is swept away by a current, and floats downstream.

_But if the sun sets you free—_

_Sets you free --_

_You’ll be free indeed, indeed._

This afternoon, I think, I accomplished something. Anything. Those tracker jackers are the bane of Peeta’s existence, as far as I am concerned. The more of them I can take out, the better. The Capitol’s grand experiment can kiss my ass. They’ve been taking over our forests and making our lives a living hell. You can’t go but ten yards in the forests of Districts Twelve and Thirteen without hearing their fatal, familiar hum. They might not kill you, but they can certainly make your life a living, barely-breathing hell. I for one have had it. The last straw was highjacking Peeta. And I’ll never forget plucking the tracker jacker stingers out of his skin in the arena, sucking out the poison, then chewing the leaves, and pasting them on like a sloppy child in art class. I destroyed a nest of tracker jackers. _I accomplished something today_ , I think as I gather clumps of mushrooms without rhyme or reasons. Without drawing attention to myself, I dash out of the forest, into the meadow.

 _S_ _he’s only happy in the sun;_

_She’s only happy in the sun._

I fall hard to the ground, clutching my bags of crawfish and mushrooms. _Must. Save. Dinner._ I feel myself drifting into sleep, but then I just realize that I knocked my head on a large rock. _Grace and beauty_ , I say to myself as I try to shake it off. I’m lying on the ground, and I look to my right. I see a patch of late blooming dandelions. They are so tall and so strong and so yellow, taking on the color of the sun. And then I hear the humming. I try to scoot away, expecting to see more tracker jackers. But then I see a bee—a simple, harmless honeybee. They are more afraid of you than you are of them, and they won’t attack you unless you attack their queen. This little bee was lazy, hovering above the same flower for a few minutes. Maybe he too was relishing the rays of spring sunshine beneath an endless blue sky and white clouds. I haven’t seen a plain honeybee since before the Games.

As of late, when hunting, I see more tracker jackers than natural insects. My dad always taught me that insects are good, and that we need them. We need bugs to spread and disperse pollen. Without bees, we wouldn’t have spring flowers, or honey. He taught me to respect them, to keep my distance, not to provoke them. To let them do their jobs. These bees are pollinating the dandelions. No bees, no dandelions in the spring. From the pit of my stomach, I wanted to help them. Fight the tracker jackers back. Without the help of the Capitol, I can see that they are out of control, and endangering local native populations. They will soon overtake the populations of local honeybees. No bees, no flowers, no honey. This is particularly poetic to me when I think of what the tracker jackers took from Peeta. If I can eliminate the tracker jackers, and save the bees, I can help Peeta. I can save the flowers. I could help repair District 12. I resolved myself in that moment to do away with as many of the damned tracker jackers as I can. I pull myself up from the sweet grass and salute the little hard-working bee as I scuttle home.

_Every time I hear you laughing—_

_I hear you laughing--_

_It makes me cry._

Sae is pleased with the crawfish and mushrooms; the stew tonight is earthy and warm and delicious. Peeta wants to know my secrets, how I talk to nature to find what we need. _Elbow grease_ , I tell him. I can’t tell him about the tracker jackers just yet. He sits next to me at dinner. His hands brush my thigh. I’m sucking the flesh and brains out of the little crawdads, and Peeta still wants to touch me. Peeta says he is proud of my contributions. We clean up after dinner. I eat some of his cookies. We start to work on the book. But tonight, I tell him I want to work on the plants. I want to write about the dandelions and the bees.

“You’re a strange one, Katniss,” Peeta jokes as he sketches the flower. “But if this makes you happy, I’m glad to do it.” We sketch the flowers and the bees until the sun’s morning rays pour into the room through the windows. I’m contributing again.

_Like the story of life—_

_Of your life--_

_Is hello, goodbye._

_She’s only happy in the sun;_

_She’s only happy in the sun._ __


	6. How to See the Sun Rise

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Katniss and Peeta fall into a new routine, but new routines bring new challenges and consequences.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Disclaimer: The Hunger Games belong to Ms. Suzanne Collins, Scholastic, and Lionsgate Entertainment. The Secret Life of Bees belongs to Sue Monk Kidd. How to See the Sun Rise belongs to Ben Sollee.
> 
> Thanks to: SavannahHershey, my beta and fangirl-in-crime, and orea domina!
> 
> Rating: MA for mature language, implied violence, and explicit sexual situations.
> 
> A/N: As promised, here is some Katniss and Peeta fluff. Like all teenagers, they’re struggling with raging hormones. Thanks for the reviews and suggestions—I’m trying to make our ship set sail—just not too quickly. Patience is a virtue that Katniss and I both seem to lack, but we’re working on it. Thanks for the reviews, and enjoy!

_Well, teach me baby,_

_Oh Lord, yes—_

_A little show-and-tell,_

Peeta and I have a new routine this spring. Greasy Sae only comes in the evenings now to help us with dinner. Peeta is a champ with breakfast. Every morning, it’s something new and delicious and hot and fresh, kneaded by his own strong hands. Oh, the things those hands could do. Biscuits and breads and scones and sweet pastries and danishes and sometimes oatmeal. He’s the brains behind the operation. The brawn, too. He bakes for our little “family” and the townspeople. Peeta takes most of the breads into the district each morning as he leaves for work, giving them to his coworkers and returning families. Thom calls him the Welcome Wagon. I do what I can—I bring in fresh fruits and vegetables from the forest and meadow, fish from the lake and streams. We try to provide as much for ourselves as we can. It keeps us busy.

After Sae and Haymitch leave after dinner, Peeta and I do the dishes and then settle down to work on our books. The Plant book is filling out nicely, and I’ve been able to find samples of almost everything in the book this spring. The pages smell like the mountains— _my father’s mountains_. The Tribute book has proved much more difficult. Peeta and I are guaranteed to have one breakdown every time that we work on it. Sometimes, it’s just too difficult to find the words, let alone put them to paper. Sometimes, Peeta struggles to finish a painting, but he squeezes his eyes shut tight, takes in a deep breath, and steels himself to finish. When the other has an episode, we wrap our arms around each other tightly, whispering sweet nothings (sometimes we play Real, Not Real), rubbing their back, waiting for the moment to pass. Thus far, neither of us have completely freaked out in front of one another since my charming little nightmare incident. Sometimes, we fall asleep next to each other, buried under a wool blanket, his heavy arms draped across my bony shoulder and wrapped around my waist. My hands always find their way to his chest to find his beating heart. Our chests rise and fall together. We usually wake up a couple of hours later, say our parting words, and split. It’s awkward. Sometimes I wake up alone. It’s devastating.

Don’t get me wrong—the nightmares aren’t stopping. Peeta and I tried talking about them at breakfast in the morning, but it was too painful for both us of. I’ve lost the ability to properly enunciate words when I talk about my nightmares. I just end up sobbing and crying and wailing like I’ve lost my tongue. I know how much that hurts Peeta, because it reminds him of how Darius and Lavinia were tortured to death in front of him. Peeta becomes catatonic when he talks about them, sinking to his knees and wrapping his arms around himself and he can’t stop shaking. And then I panic because that’s how I found him in the Tunnels of the Capitol, and I can’t bear to almost lose him again. He always comes back to me, and I always find my voice, but it’s just killing us.

_How to keep from loving you,_

_Now should I fence in my heart, baby?_

_Lord, keep it in the shade._

The best thing about this spring is that I can finally hug Peeta again. And more often than not, Peeta initiates the hug. He always craved physical contact and affection, just like my father. But I am my mother’s child, and I am not so great at feeling feelings. I still have the urge to push away the ones I love so that I can’t get attached when they leave. But Peeta—and his strong arms—are very persistent and always manage to find me. And once I’m trapped, I don’t want to leave. I start letting him get away with it. It seems to make him happy. _I don’t want to admit to myself that it makes me happy_.

Peeta’s hugs make me feel a lot of things. His arms are bigger, stronger—from the Games, from hauling bags of flour and sugar and gallons of milk, from chopping down trees and building things, from holding me. These aren’t the arms of a boy—these are the arms of a man. But it still feels like the old Peeta, strong and steady and warm and comforting. Mostly, they make me feel safe, like I belong, like nothing can hurt me. But new Peeta is kind of tingly in the best way possible. Like our skin is on fire. Sometimes I can’t get enough of him and try to press every inch of our scarred hides together. Haymitch jokes that some day we’re going to get stuck like that. _I don’t think that’s such a bad idea_.

_Give it all the fruit it could want—_ __

_Except yours._

We haven’t kissed yet. We’ve come close. Really close. Like when we’re working on the book. Or I’ve had a terrible nightmare. Or if he’s having a shitty seizure. But we usually graze lips when we’re doing ordinary things, like putting the dishes away, or watching the sunset on the porch. His lips are so warm and soft on my skin, and I could just stay that way forever. It never does. BUT. He always kisses my forehead before we go to bed and go our separate ways. I always hate that part—when one of us leaves to go home to their empty house in Victors’ Village. We both face the demons that haunt our nightmares alone in the dark. I’ve taken to sleeping with the light on, hell if I care that I’m wasting electricity. I’ve noticed that Peeta’s lights are on, too. I don’t know why we don’t just suck it up and have sleepovers like we used to, on the Tour, on the beach, in the cave… I figure that I’m stubborn and he is afraid, but that’s not making anything any better. Now that he denies me his kisses, it makes me want them even more. But what I want above all else right now is a goddamn night of sleep.

_Teach me baby—_

_Well, one more time,_

_Just exactly how far you are away._

When I awake in a pool of sunlight, it’s disconcerting. I got my night of sleep. Peeta is asleep next to me on the floor. I don’t move, because his face is pressed against my hair on my neck, and each puff of warm breath makes me bite my tongue. He’s also drooling and snoring. In this sunlight, he looks angelic, and then my eyes travel down his arms, still wrapped about me. I can see all of the scars criss-crossing his skin, like a well-worn map. Some scars are still bright pink and raised, others are white and barely noticeable. Except Peeta’s real skin is marked by freckles, and his new skin is still creamy.

I can’t help but notice how nicely my olive skin stands out against his in this light. Unconsciously, my fingers start traveling the scars on his arm, tracing my own, always coming back to him. He rustles against me, but doesn’t wake up. I keep exploring him. He’s no angel—he’s a man, a man with a story—our story. Every scar, every pock mark—it’s our story. We survived. I think his map is quite lovely. I love the downy soft blond hair growing on his arm. Peeta shifts in his sleep, and by chance or by fate or by choice, he squeezes my hip. He pulls me closer to him.

_Should I start walking now, baby?_

__

_When in the day,_ __

_You know I don't need no map—_

_Yes, I'll find my way._

I look around us, and see that our pens and pencils are still by our side, and the Plant book sits a few feet away. Last night we were working on the crab apple tree, whose flowers are so beautiful in the spring and whose fruit curses us with its foul smell in the summer. I reckon that we’d just fallen asleep after we finished, both of us too exhausted to move. I thought back, back to my sleep. But nothing stood out about this sleep. If I had dreams or nightmares, I certainly don’t remember them. I hadn’t slept this well since the Tour and the train winding its way to the Capitol. Such a strange feeling, to be so at peace upon waking up. Is this how other people feel in the morning? Fuckers. I’m jealous. What I wouldn’t give for night after night of blissful, peaceful, uninterrupted sleep… with Peeta at my side, pressing into my hip. The only times I had been able to sleep since the Hunger Games were the times when I was with Peeta, pressed against him in the sleeping bag or in the little train-sized bed or buried in the sand. It occurred to me that I hadn’t had real, not-morphling-induced sleep since the Quarter Quell. And then the word vomit came back up.

Peeta had cracked his eyes open and he was staring at me. He hadn’t moved, and my hands were still stroking his. He was still pressed into my hip. We stay like this for a few minutes. I’m afraid to move because I don’t want to lose this closeness. And he’s watching me. 

_Teach me, baby—_

_Oh, I promise I'll get it this time,_

_How to hold a bird in my hand and watch it grow—_

“Ummm. How long have you been awake?” I say quietly, turning my lips toward his shoulder in a half-assed attempt to hide the blush sweeping across my cheeks.

“Long enough to see you checking me out,” Peeta replies cheekily. Now I try to break away from him, my cheeks burning with embarrassment, but he holds me to him. 

“I like your scars!” I choke out, and he looks taken aback. “I like them because they tell a story—OUR STORY—and no one understands it except the two of us!”

Peeta swallows, hard. Now I’ve gone and done it. I’ve stepped over the line and I’ve triggered something and today is going to be a shitty day, just because I can’t fucking keep my hands to myself. He’s going to have an episode, and he won’t even let me go.

A smile appears on his face. “It’s hard to tell the new scars from the old scars, sometimes. I was a clumsy kid,” he finally says. He looks into my eyes and brushes my hair from my cheek. “I’ll need your scars to figure out my scars.” That’s nice. He’s so fucking nice. Here I am, worried that he’s going to kill me, and he’s just being Peeta the Poet.

Now it’s my turn to grin. “Well, some of my scars are because I’m reckless,” I say carelessly, playing with his hands and fingers and knuckles. I have a burning question to ask him. Well, a few burning questions for him. I gird my loins. “How’d you sleep last night?”

Now he rubs his bleary eyes. He’s letting go of me. “Okay, I guess,” and Peeta’s arm falls back across me.

“No nightmares? No terrors? No… bad dreams?”

He shakes his head. “Nope. Nothing. Dreamless.” He pauses for a moment, looking at the clock. “Why? Did you? I thought you slept pretty soundly. I was expecting a sucker punch to the groin at some point, but you continue to surprise me, Katniss.” And then he plants a hot wet kiss on my forehead. I would sell my soul at this point to be close enough to his groin to punch him. Now it’s my turn to be excited. I pull myself into his lap, straddling him. If Haymitch walked in at this very moment, he’d certainly have something to talk about. I cup Peeta’s face in my hands, and pull him towards my own.

_See those feathers bloom—_ __

_But don't let it fly,_

_Even though that's what it's supposed to do._

“Do you know what this means?!” I practically shout. Peeta’s eyes give me this quizzical look.

“It means we’ll have lots of energy today?” he says sarcastically.

“NO!” And I pull him even closer to my lips. I want him so badly. _Why is he being so dense?_ “IT MEANS THAT WHEN WE SLEEP TOGETHER WE DON’T HAVE NIGHTMARES. SO I THINK WE SHOULD JUST KEEP SLEEPING TOGETHER.”

Now he’s smirking at me and I can’t wipe the shit-eating grin off his face. “Yes, that, too,” he chuckles, “I just wanted to hear _you_ say it.” I want to slap him, but I just let go of his face and give him my best glower. “What? It’s not rocket science, Katniss.” I’m embarrassed. I hate talking about my feelings, about my insecurities and my fears and my needs. The more he knows about me, the more he understands about me, the more vulnerable I am. Peeta’s still squeezing my hip, a little too close for comfort. There are so many things I want to tell him—about the train, about the cave, about the beach, about the tunnels, about the way I want to touch myself when I think about him. The way that only the two of us will ever understand what we’ve been through and how we really do need each other to survive. But I just collapse onto his shoulders, into his lap.

_Teach me, baby—_

_Mmm, one last time,_

_How to see the sun rise_

_In the dead of night._

“Why weren’t we doing this before?” I squeak. His beautiful face falls.

“I’m afraid of myself. I’m afraid I’ll have an episode in my sleep and that I’ll hurt you. And I won’t stop myself in time.” A tear slides out of his eye, and I lean forward to kiss it away. He sniffles, and buries his hand in my hair behind my neck. “But I haven’t had an episode in my sleep in awhile. Not since I planted the primroses. I think we’re safe now.”

Now I feel stupid. “I thought it was because you stopped liking me. Stopped… needing me. Stopped… wanting me,” I sniffle. _Just. Stop. Talking. Katniss_. Now it was Peeta’s turn to hold me ever closer.

 “I could NEVER stop loving you or needing you or wanting you!” His tears are hot and fast and wet upon my neck. “I never want to hurt you. And… and… I don’t want you to see my… weak—weakness.”

My heart hurts; _he said “loving,” I said “liking.” Does he still love me, the way I love him?_ I wind my hands around his neck, his shoulders, his back. I have to tell him; he needs to hear it from my own lips, of my own will. “I love you,” I will myself to say.

“Real.”

“You love me.”

“Real.”

“We protect each other.”

“Real.”

“We take care of each other.”

“Real.”

_Oh, 'cause that's how it feels, baby,_

_'Cause you don't feel that way, too?_

Peeta presses his lips to mine, and I press back, but I open up just a little, and I can feel his warm breath on my lips. His hands and arms relax, but I don’t want to let go. _More, I want more_ , as his tongue flicks my bottom lip. So we just sit there, wrapped up in our own little world on the floor for who knows how long. The rest of the world is awake now, but I don’t think we’ll be joining them today.

“How’s my favorite sweet—HEY, LOVEBIRDS!” Haymitch barges though the door, already drunk, holding a pitcher of what could only be orange juice and champagne. Breakfast of champions. Peeta and I don’t even have time to disentangle ourselves from one another. I’m so red, I feel like I’m LITERALLY on fire, and Peeta may or may not be breaking out in hives. This is the Victor equivalent of your parents barging in on you and your significant other trying to have sex for the first time, and you’re begging him to put it in, and then your mom is there. I want to die.

We scramble to stand up, still holding hands. Haymitch is singing a truly inappropriate song about the birds and the bees as we try to clean up the book and the supplies, all while maintaining a veneer of composure. I follow Peeta into the kitchen.

“If only Portia and Cinna and Effie could see us now,” Peeta laughs as he wraps me into a big hug.

“ _First comes LOVE then comes MARRIAGE then comes the BABY with the BABY CARRIAGE!_ ” Haymitch bellows belligerently from the living room. “BUT YOU YUTZES HAVE DONE IT ALL OUT OF ORDER, HAVEN’T YOUUU?”

“Alright, Haymitch, let’s get some eggs and toast in you!” Peeta bellows back.

It’s going to be a long day yet. I suspect that I’m on Haymitch duty. But in the corniest way possible, I’m okay with this knowing that I get to sleep next to Peeta Mellark tonight. Vom.

_Oh, 'cause that's how it feels, baby,_

_'Cause you don't feel that way, too?_ __


	7. Your Rocky Spine

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Katniss runs into the trouble in the words with some tracker jackers, but has Peeta healed enough to help her? (Haymitch puts in his two cents.)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Disclaimer: The Hunger Games belong to Ms. Suzanne Collins, Scholastic, and Lionsgate Entertainment. The Secret Life of Bees belongs to Sue Monk Kidd. Your Rocky Spine s by the Great Lake Swimmers. (Yes, much of my playlist is alt-country and bluegrass, just check these guys out!)
> 
> Thanks to: SavannahHershey, my beta and fangirl-in-crime, and orea domina (if you aren’t reading A Thousand Kisses Deep, you should be)!
> 
> Ships: Katniss/Peeta, (Haymitch/Effie, Delly/Thom, Gale/OC)
> 
> Rating: MA for mature language, violence, and explicit sexual situations.
> 
> A/N: I hope that this chapter delivers on the action and sexual frustrations. I’ve always thought since reading Mockingjay that it’s really important that Peeta learn how to cope with the tracker jackers in the real world. It’s tough for him, but he’s a tough guy, so he’s up for the challenge. For what it’s worth, I definitely relate more to Katniss, so writing angry Peeta is a huge obstacle for me; I hope I got inside his head enough for everyone. (I’m also not sure he’s angry all the time, you know?)

_I was lost in the lakes_

_And the shape that your body makes,_

_That your body makes._

_It never gets any fucking easier, does it, sweetheart?_ I hiss at myself in the forest, hiding in a great old oak. _Just another thing I’m shitty at doing_. My father had always prided himself on his ability to just feel the forest out, to hear what it needed amongst the trees. I learned everything I knew from him. And then my ear got blown off in the Hunger Games, and the forest is overwhelming my senses. I can’t make sense of the sounds and smells and sights around me. _Worst hunter EVER._ All of the leaves intermingling with the flowers, and the various birds singing to one another, the animals quietly going about the business. It’s overpowering. My senses are confused. It’s maddening that I can’t focus anymore.

I leave the tree. I’d been sitting in it for three hours now, accomplishing jack shit. _Getting a tan—_ that would only be an achievement in the Capitol _._ I take to the higher ground and start up the mountain. I’d exhausted my prey in that part of the forest. Destroying the tracker jacker nests gave me a very real sense of purpose and value and being. The girl who was once one with the forest was trying very hard to give back.

After my good aim brought down one tracker jacker hive earlier this spring, I decided that I’m going to bring all of them down. Mostly for Peeta. Then for District Twelve. Then for the honeybees. It also just feels good to fuck shit up. Completely normal, Dr. Aurelius assures me. Keep on fucking shit up, Mockingjay. Get it all out. _RAGE AGAINST THE MACHINE AND WHATEVER._ I’m not really “raging against the machine” but I am actively trying to bring down what the Capitol has wrought upon my fair District. (Okay, “fair” is the wrong word—“blighted” is way better.) I want to destroy the tracker jackers because they tried to rob Peeta of his essence and being— his love for me-- and they nearly succeeded. We fight it every single fucking day. They almost took all of his goodness and turned it against me. Motherfuckers. Okay, so maybe there is a lot of rage in me, after all. Touché.

_And the mountains said I could find you here—_

_They whisper the snow and the leaves in my ear._

And to be fair, the tracker jackers were making it really hard to rebuild this summer. In the time between bombing District Twelve into oblivion and now mid-summer, the wild things in the forests had run amok, and now it was almost impossible to rein them back in. And we don’t have fancy exterminators out here in the boonies. In particular, the Capitol-engineered mutants like the tracker jackers were particularly hard to control and destroy. Not only were they vicious little bastards, but it was almost impossible to know where their nests would be. The men and women trying to rebuild the town center found that out the hard way; they’d bring down a tree, only to be attacked by tracker jackers. Sometimes they’d find hives within the trees, and then they’d be royally screwed. Luckily, Peeta had not been stung yet, but I suspect that he avoided chopping down the trees because he was afraid to get stung. The tracker jackers were more than a pestilence—they were a constant reminder that the Capitol had altered our reality and our natural world. We need to eradicate them and take back our district for ourselves, scientific progress be damned.

Dr. Aurelius kindly reminded me, when I’d go into a blind rage in one of our charming phone conversations, that my thought process was normal. “Some people believe that destruction must be complete before anything new may be created,” he surmised. “Destruction before creation.”

“FUCK THAT SHIT. EVERYTHING ASSOCIATED WITH THE CAPITOL HAS TO GO, THEN WE CAN START ALL OVER AGAIN,” I would yell hysterically.

“Mmm hmm. How does the destruction make you feel good?”

“GOOD.”

“Do you feel like you are accomplishing something?”

“Sometimes.”

“Do you feel like you’re healing?”

“I guess.”

“Until next week, keep up the good work, Katniss,” and then Dr. Aurelius would be gone.

There was something else I wanted to tell him. I wanted to tell him about the honeybees, how they were starting to come back. I wanted to tell him about the bees and the honey and the flowers, and how I felt like I was saving Peeta because by saving the bees, they could keep pollinating the flowers and making the honey, and Peeta was the sweet dandelion in my life! But I was afraid that if I told him everything—just like that—then he’d tell me that I needed to work on my grammar and avoid run-on sentences. Dr. Aurelius really wants no part of our relationship drama. I guess he figures that it’ll work out on its own; either that, or one of us will kill the other, and then it won’t be an issue at all.

_I traced my finger along your trails—_

_Your body was the map,_

_I was lost in there._

I’ve reached a small clearing on the mountain, and see a large grey rock shaded by a great pine, and it looks like a good place to stop and think. I sit and start playing with the acorns on the ground. Summer is here, and soon fall, I think to myself, and I should really leave them for the chipmunks and squirrels who will need to gather them for hibernation. Sometimes Peeta stuff too much food in his mouth and he looks like a chipmunk. Heh. As if by fate, a little honeybee comes and starts to buzz around my rock. Soon it’s joined by another, and then another. It’s like the whole nest is coming to greet me for returning their home to them.

For every tracker jacker nest I bring down, a beehive takes its place. For so many years during the Capitol, the tracker jackers had been forcing the bees out of their home. Their numbers began to dwindle. They became easy prey for the tracker jackers. As the number of bees dropped, so did the number of flowers and trees and every other living thing in the woods. They terrorized the wild life. A few summers ago, dead wolves were found nearly every week, dead from tracker jacker venom. Nothing about this situation was natural. The Capitol was trying to force our hand again, and I was going to take that control back. Well, take it back and give it to nature. I’m a benevolent despot. I was taking the power away from the tracker jackers—the Capitol—and back to the bees, the bees who would nourish the sweet dandelions and primroses that adorn our fields and yards. It’s like I was taking back Peeta and Prim from the Capitol and planting them in the fresh mountain earth.

And now I’ve lost another hour on that rock, swimming in my thoughts. I sit and I think and I watch, and then I just sit there watching, like a pillowcase full of doorknobs. It’s a whole lot of sitting. I came up here to destroy more tracker jacker hives, and I’ve spent half of the day dreaming about Peeta’s hair and how soft it is and how it tickles my neck when he kisses me. I start to sigh with defeat, and then I see it—high in the branches of the very pine tree I’m under is a shiny tracker jacker hive. It glints in the sunshine. _How am I going to bring this bastard down?_ I wonder.

_Floating over your rocky spine—_

_The glaciers made you and now you're mine._ __

Sometimes, it’s easy—I can shoot it down using my bow and arrow if the hive looks quiet, stuff it in a burlap sack, and then chuck it in the nearest body of water. They drown so very easily.

Usually, it’s harder than that. On damp days, I will try to light a wet smoky fire under the hive, so that they smoke makes them simultaneously groggy and angry—so that they can’t react quickly—then I’ll cut it down or shoot it down. Then I stuff it in the burlap sack and drown it. Sometimes I shriek like a banshee and swing it around like a shot putter and launch it into the lake. I like lighting fires—I like the destruction and I know it’s a terrible way to die-- but I always worry about putting them out thoroughly. _Only you can prevent forest fires!_ My dad told me.

Most of the time though, I find a way to climb up the nearest tree (or the same tree, as it so happens), lean in close enough to see the whites of their eyes, and shove the whole nest into a sack, then tie the sack shut and saw the damn branch off. Even though it’s the beginning of summer and pregnant words hang in the hot, humid air, I go out wearing long sleeves and pants and boots and my father’s old mining gloves, because I don’t want to get strung. And that’s exactly what I do today—I find myself climbing up the ancient pine. There is no movement within or around the nest, so I think I’m safe. As quietly and swiftly as I can, I pull the burlap over the hive, tie it shut, and start to saw. And then I see it—movement within the sack. They’re awake. Fuck. I don’t have much time now. Luckily, the top of the tree is weak, and with a final grunt, I push the sack and its hive back, watching it plummet to the rock below. Even from ten yards above the ground, I can see their shiny little bodies struggling beneath the burlap to get out and break free and wreak havoc on whatever just rocked their world.

_I was moving across your frozen veneer,_

_The sky was dark,_

_But you were clear._

I slip down the tree, and find a long pointy branch on the ground. _Necessity is indeed the mother of invention_ , I think grimly. As I approach the burlap hive, the tracker jackers go wild. They can fucking smell me, smell my hot flesh. Silently, I slip my pack back on. I hook the pointy end of the stick through the knot at the top of the sack, and start to drag. This hive must be particularly full of tracker jackers, because it weighs a ton, and they’re going berserk. I can’t run into the forest, for fear of the sack bursting. I grit my teeth and drag it as delicately as I can across the sharp leaves and thistles and acorns and rocks, and I hope there are some snakes down there for good measure, too. And then it happens. I can hear it before the tracker jacker sinks its stinger into my knee. I can’t cry out, because then the others will attack me too. It stings me, it blinds me; I am white with rage and pain. I have to follow through.

When I come to a quick mountain creek, I heave the sack into it as quickly as possible, and I don’t even let myself have the satisfaction of watching it get swept down the rapids, listening to their frantic screams as they drown in their sodden hive. I sit on the bank of the creek, and pull up my pant leg to see the damage. Now I can start wailing. I fumble for a pair of tweezers in my pack, and fumble for the herbs before realizing that the string is on the BACK of my knee. I won’t be able to suck the poison out, and I can’t see what I’m doing because I don’t have eyes on the back of my head. Mother. Fuckers. I dig around in the back of my knee for a good five minutes before I can pull out the stinger. I then slice open the blister and immerse my leg in the creek, trying to flush out all the toxins. My head is swimming. Everything has taken on a distinctly shiny, tinny quality. The pain is subsiding—well, at least it’s not getting any worse. I do my best to apply the herbal ointment, and wrap my knee in a fresh bandage. Peeta’s going to love this one.

_Could you feel my footsteps?_

_And would you shatter, would you shatter?_

_Would you?_

“WHAT THE HELL HAPPENED?” he demands as I limped in his back door. I shrug limply. Peeta knows the answer. Before I know it, I’m sitting on the counter and he’s taken my pants off and he’s crouched underneath me, examining the back of my knee. It’s so strange to see his face between my legs.

“It’s the tenth nest I’ve taken down,” I answer weakly. He stares up at me from between my knees. Awkward.

“So THAT”S what you’ve been doing all day this summer?” he says incredulously.“Hey! I bring home herbs and fruits and vegetables!” I retort. “I KNOW I’M NOT BRINGING HOME THE BACON, BUT THE NESTS NEED TO BE DESTROYED, PEETA."

“I KNOW THAT, KATNISS. BETTER THAN ANYONE ELSE. THAT DOESN’T MEAN THAT I HAVE TO LIKE IT. THEY TOOK EVERYTHING AWAY FROM ME. I WON’T LET THAT HAPPEN TO YOU.”

“WHAT ARE WE YELLING ABOUT?” My face is now as a red as my poor knee. I really want Peeta out from my between my legs. _Or do I. I don’t know._ My face hurts. Peeta looks like he feels bad.

“Do you need me to suck the poison out?” He repositions himself beneath my legs.

“No!” I shout. He looks offended. “I think I got it all out in the creek.” I notice that Peeta’s not looking at my incredibly sexy knees anymore.

_Your soft fingers between my claws—_

_Like purity against resolve._

“Katniss, promise me that you aren’t doing anything stupid. Anything that will get you in trouble. Anything that…,” he gulps, “will take you away from me. I can’t survive without you.” I shake my head fiercely. “Katniss, I know better than anyone what those bastards can do to you. Real. How they were used against me. And I couldn’t live with myself if I let that happen to you.” I nod. His hands are resting on my thighs. He sighs between my legs and buries his face in my lap, in my underwear. I want to die. “So please, please, please, just be careful?” I nod.

“I’m doing it for you. I’m doing it so that we can rebuild our district. I’m doing it for… the bees…,” I say, but my tongue is thick and my words are blurry. The toxin is making me faint, but the word vomit keeps coming. “They took everything away from you—“

“Not everything,” Peeta murmurs. It’s almost as if he is trying to breathe in my scent and taste me, as I can feel his hot breath through the fabric on my damp curls.

“They tried to take everything from you, and all I want to do is give you part of your freedom back. And punish them.” I’m not sure my words make sense, but I put them all out there. Now I’m woozy. He head swims between my legs. I feel his jaw nod against my hip bone. Where are my pants?

_I could tell then there that we were formed from the clay_

_And came from the rocks for earth to display._

The last thing I remember is a loud banging and clatter and glass breaking. “YOU TWO NEED TO GET A ROOM,” Haymitch slurs as he falls through the door, “OR A ‘DO NOT DISTURB’ SIGN. YOU’RE ALWAYS PLAYING BETWEEN EACH OTHER’S LEGS. WHAT IS IT? ‘HIDE AND GO PEEK’? HEH. ‘DOCTOR?’”

I feel Peeta scoop me up in his arms and take me upstairs to his bed. I feel him tuck me in, and my consciousness gives out. Later that night, I can feel him change the ointment and bandage. He kisses my forehead before pulling me to him once more, and I think he says “always” but that could be the toxin talking. Oh! And I think I’m wearing pants again, because when I wake up in the morning, his body is pressed against mine and his hand is stuck in my drawstring. _He stayed with me_ , I think wondrously. I’m deliriously happy. When he wakes up, he makes me breakfast in bed and even brings me the newspaper. Peeta says he’s sorry for yelling, and that he’s going to work from home today so he can watch me sleep it off on the couch. He gives me the sweetest, gentlest warmest, open-mouthed kiss he’s ever given me, and I’m still starving for his affections. The boy with the bread is a saint.

_They told me to be careful up there,_

_Where the wind rages through your hair._ __


	8. Show Me a Little More Shame

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Now that Peeta and Katniss are sleeping together, what happens in the aftermath of one of Peeta’s episodes? Is Katniss strong enough to stay by his side?

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Disclaimer: The Hunger Games belong to Ms. Suzanne Collins, Scholastic, and Lionsgate Entertainment. The Secret Life of Bees belongs to Sue Monk Kidd. Show Me a Little Shame belongs to Ben Harper and the Innocent Criminals belong to themselves. The lullaby is a Russian folk song more commonly known as Kalinka.
> 
> Thanks to: SavannahHershey, my beta and fangirl-in-crime, and orea domina!
> 
> Rating: MA for mature language, implied violence, and explicit sexual situations.
> 
> A/N: I’d like to thank everyone for their continued support and reviews! I’m going to use this moment to address one constructive criticism here: I don’t think Peeta is angry and sullen and on-edge all the time. In fact, I think he’s rather mellow, and content to just be with Katniss again. When I read Chapter 27 of Mockingjay, I just knew that Dr. Aurelius would never let Peeta return to Twelve if he posed a threat to Katniss. In fact, I think Katniss is more dangerous to herself without Peeta there. And (at least to me, it seems), Peeta was working very hard in Thirteen to improve his condition to the point of where he posed no danger to Katniss, and could return home as soon as possible. Katniss is the best medicine for Peeta, and vice versa. So whilst I can understand (and attempt to write) angry Peeta, I don’t think he’s a raging monster. I think he’s happy to be home with his Katniss, and with her, he can overcome all obstacles. No one ever said it was easy, but it’s not rocket science, either. Just my opinion and characterization!

_You, you've been looking at me just a little too long,_

_Now I can never look the same._

_Blindness and kindness,_

_There's no difference in the two_

_When I can no longer see the good in you._

I love the feeling of waking up next to him, his weight against mine. Every morning that I wake up beside him, I take as a blessing from the unknown. Every morning, I do the same thing; I curl myself closer into his chest, pressing myself to him, and wrap my arms around his neck, down his shoulder. I trace every scar with my eyes closed; his scars are like the back of my own hand. I press myself flush against him, and shiver in anticipation when I feel his hardness push against my upper thigh. In these moments, I don’t know if Peeta is awake or not yet, but I certainly am. I breathe in his scent, and try to suss out his taste with my lips. I feel his heart beating, and I bring my breathing into rhythm with his. I plant small kisses on his chest once I’m fully awake. But the best part is when he opens his bright blue eyes for the first time, and he stares in bewilderment, like it’s the first time he’s ever laid his eyes upon me. His arms wrap ever more tightly around me, his thumb rubs circles over my hip, and he nuzzles my neck with his lips. _It’s wonderful._

This morning, it’s hot, and not in a good way. Our skin sheens with sweat, already slicked in a thin film by the mugginess. Peeta leaves the windows open as we sleep and while it can be delightfully breezy at night, by morning the heat and humidity begins to set in. The sheets cling to our bodies like a shroud, but I won’t sleep without sheets, and Peeta obliges. This morning is particularly uncomfortable, our bodies coated with sweat and teenage hormones. I’ve been resisting the urge to wake him up by touching his morning erection, but every day is a new challenge. But we’re both in foul moods this morning—not from the nightmares, but rather the oppressive summer heat. He lets me have my sweet kisses, and then Peeta grumbles and tells me that he’s taking a cold shower, and my breath catches in my throat as I think about his hard body in the cold water. _Think unsexy thoughts, Katniss, think unsexy thoughts!_ I tell myself as I head downstairs. The water turns on; _what I wouldn’t give to be in there with him._

_So won't you show me a little shame,_

_Won't you show me a little shame?_

_Now 'cause I'm, I'm a gentleman,_

_Lookin' for a gentlewomen,_

_So-called ladies keep breakin' my heart._

Peeta makes bread this morning, anyway, even though the ovens make his kitchen more like a sauna. I’ve thrown open every window in his house, seeking out a breeze. Haymitch’s geese smell particularly bad in the early heat today. The smell upsets Peeta a bit, I suspect, because he’s not his usual morning person self. I offend him further by telling him I’ll just be having fruit and cheese for breakfast. He glares at me, and shoves another loaf of rye in the oven. I’m sipping my piping hot coffee and suddenly, I hear Peeta slam his fist down on the butcher-block counters.

“You’d think that the Capitol could have shared the gift of FUCKING CLIMATE CONTROL with the Districts!” Peeta snarls. The heat must have set him off. I instinctively freeze, afraid to move, afraid that he’s having an episode. I set my coffee down as quietly as humanly possible, and try to slide my chair back without it squeaking. It squeaks loudly as Peeta is pulling the loaf out of the oven. _Grace and beauty, Katniss_.

“KATNISS, COULD YOU KEEP IT DOWN?” he roars, dropping the bread on the counter and clutching his hand. “NOW I’VE GONE AND BURNED MYSELF, YOU FILTHY MU—“ He stops himself mid-word, and I know that by the look in his eyes, the tracker jacker venom is seizing him. His eyes are blazing, like hot coals in an oven, and burning into my soul. Peeta’s breathing is erratic and I can see every vein in his body throbbing with blood and venom. Venom towards me.

_Show me a house, show me a home—_

_Show me how it could all fall apart._

_So won't you show me a little shame,_

_Won't you show me a little shame,_

_Won't you show me a little shame?_

_He doesn’t mean it, Katniss, he’s having an episode. He doesn’t know what he’s saying. Forgive him. Stay with him. He doesn’t mean those words_. I’m not afraid of him today. I see his hand, red and throbbing from the burn. Peeta turns away from me, and grasps the edge of the counter with such ferocity that his fingertips turn white. He clenches his teeth and breathes hard though his nose, and lets out a guttural moan. His shoulders are rippling with anger, and his whole body convulses and shakes. _Don’t be afraid, be brave_.

I approach him from behind, and impulsively wrap my arms around his back, snaking to his waist. I rest my head on his spine.

“Peeta, stay with me,” I say quietly. He shakes violently in response. I run my hands over his chest. “No, stay. Stay here, with me,” I coo, as if I am singing a lullaby. _Maybe a lullaby will work._ I start to sing a song my father taught me when I was no more than six.

_Little snowberry, snowberry, snowberry of mine!_

_Little raspberry in the garden, my little raspberry!_

_Ah, under the pine, the green one,_

_Lay me down to sleep,_

_Rock-a-bye, baby, rock-a-bye, baby,_

_Lay me down to sleep._

Peeta’s hands join mine on his waist as I sing into his back. _Stay with me, Peeta_ , I think desperately, _please stay_. His breathing begins to come down and his veins stop throbbing.

_Little snowberry, snowberry, snowberry of mine!_

_Little raspberry in the garden, my little raspberry!_

_Ah, little pine, little green one,_

_Don't rustle above me,_

_Rock-a-bye, baby, rock-a-bye, baby,_

_Don't rustle above me._

His head drops to his collarbone, and he suddenly seems deflated, and then squeezes my hand, pulling me against his chest.

_Little snowberry, snowberry, snowberry of mine!_

_Little raspberry in the garden, my little raspberry!_

_Ah, you beauty, pretty maiden,_

_Take a fancy to me,_

_Rock-a-bye, baby, rock-a-bye, baby,_

_Take a fancy to me._

It’s almost like he is humming with me. Peeta slowly turns around, and his pupils are going back to their normal size, and while his eyes are still cloudy, they’re blue—like the sky after a storm clears. He joins me for the last refrain, weaving his fingers through mine.

_Little snowberry, snowberry, snowberry of mine!_

_Little raspberry in the garden, my little raspberry!_

“Always, always, always,” Peeta whispers into our hands, like a prayer. I bring his scorched fingers to my lips and kiss them ever so lightly.

_'Cause now I wake up in the morning_

_More tired than before I slept._

_I get through crying and I'm sadder then before I wept._

_I get through thinking and the thoughts have left my head._

_I get through speaking and I can't remember not a word that I said._

“How did you know that song, Peet?” I ask as I examine his hand for burn damage. He gives me a wicked half-smile.

“You sang that one at assembly in school when we were eight. Remember? You were the one who wasn’t paying attention.”

I smile. “Real.” His hand is burned, but it’s not terrible—and it’s his right hand, not his left hand, so he should be fairly productive if he so chooses today. He’s blushing. He suddenly pulls me to him for a hard, demanding, hot kiss. He opens my mouth with his tongue, and I kiss him back, but I let him win. Peeta kisses the corners of my mouth.

“I’m sorry, Katniss, you shouldn’t have to see me like that,” Peeta apologizes meekly. I shake my head furiously.

“No, Peeta—that’s how we heal. That’s how we cope. This is how we’re going to do it, even if it kills us,” I retort. “I can’t bear to see you suffer any more than you can bear my suffering. So let’s just call it even and deal with it, okay?” He nods in agreement.

“I’m still sorry, Kat,” Peeta says, pulling me in for another kiss.

“S’okay,” I kiss.

_You change your mind so many times,_

_I wonder if you have a mind at all._

_And I'd rather be by myself_

_Than to have your lonesome company come to call._

I treat his burn with some herbal ointment and a cheesecloth bandage so that it can breathe in the heat. I tell him that I am going into the forest to take down some more nests, but that I’d likely be home early to escape the heat.

“I think today I’m going to stay in and paint,” he says with a degree of certainty. Peeta has earned it—when he isn’t dealing with my problems or baking, he’s in town helping with the reconstruction. He tells Haymitch and me how swimmingly things are coming along. Haymitch sarcastically asks if town will be anything like it was before, or if he’ll need a bloody map and tour guide.

“I think you should paint, it will make you feel better,” I say, kissing his bandaged hand. His eyes are clear now, but he looks troubled.

“What if the paintings are… brutal, or cruel, or ugly, or hateful?” Peeta wonders aloud, searching my grey sky eyes for answers I don’t have. I instinctively shrug.

“Then we’ll hide them away, and no one will see them, not even me. This is for you, Peeta. No one will judge you and how you heal. I won’t let them,” I answer firmly, boring into his eyes with as much conviction as I can muster. This answer is good enough, and he nods. 

“It’s never going to get any easier, is it, Kat?” Peeta says shakily, holding his head in hands between his knees. He looks like such a little boy, trapped in a giant man’s body.

“I can’t promise that it’ll get easier, Peet, but it won’t get worse. I give you my word,” I reply as I prepare him a turkey sandwich on fresh rye along with my own, and put it in the fridge to keep it fresh until lunch. Peeta grins—usually he makes lunch for me. I also make sure his pitcher of iced tea is full, and prepare a bowl of berries. (We’re all about the balanced diet in the Everdeen-Mellark household.)

I kiss him like I might never get to kiss him again as I leave, pressing deliberately into his hip, and he breaks the kiss by nipping at my top lip and swatting my bottom with his good hand.

“Shoo, shoo,” Peeta laughs as I scoot out the door.

_So won't you show me a little shame,_

_Won't you show me a little shame,_

_Won't you show me a little shame?_ __


	9. Gold to Me

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Katniss begins to unlock the secrets of beekeeping while becoming more intimate with Peeta—and only Peeta can heal these wounds.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Disclaimer: The Hunger Games belong to Ms. Suzanne Collins, Scholastic, and Lionsgate Entertainment. The Secret Life of Bees belongs to Sue Monk Kidd. Gold to Me belongs to Ben Harper.
> 
> Thanks to: SavannahHershey, my beta and fangirl-in-crime, and orea domina!
> 
> Rating: MA for mature language, violence, and explicit sexual situations.
> 
> A/N: Sexy-times: Pippi delivers. I’ve just been waiting for the right moment to unleash Katniss and Peeta’s hormones! (I just think Katniss needs to be the one to give in, because it shows that she’s letting Peeta get close again.) Anyway, I’ve had some questions about Katniss’ new hobby, the beekeeping: I chose it because I fell in love with the book The Secret Life of Bees by Sue Monk Kidd, and I think beekeeping sounds like a very peaceful and productive way to be in touch with nature. Since Katniss can’t hunt anymore, saving the bees and their way of life gives her a new purpose. It allows Katniss to heal the forest and Peeta and herself, and I think the routine is key to her healing and recovery. I also just think beekeeping sounds like fun. I’m probably just old and weird. In any case, enjoy and review!

_You look like gold to me,_

_And I'm not too blind to see—_

_You look like gold._

Not five minutes into the meadow, do I regret my decision. The sun has already risen as high in the sky as it is going to get all summer, and there is no cloud cover to protect our delicate hides. The air is choked thick with dust and ragweed pollen and humidity, and it’s already hard to breathe. I’ve already sweat through my lightest hunting clothes, and the damp humidity in the air is making it difficult to breathe. Even I, the Golden Girl on Fire, feel the hot sun already scratching at the back of my neck, my ears, my arms and hands. The sensation of your skin burning is uncomfortable at best, unsettling at most. My hands are slick with perspiration, and I wonder how I will grasp the bow or knife, and then sweat spills into my eyes, blurring my vision.

This morning, men are filling the other end of the field with ashes and remains, and my heart nearly bursts. I think— _Madge could be in there, the Undersees, the Mellarks_ —and my breath hitches in my throat. I think of my schoolmates and their families, and my eyes fill with water and I collapse in the high, scratchy, hot grass between the lake and the forest. The mountains are hazy before me, dipping in and out of the hazy smog. _My meadow is a graveyard_ , I think glumly, _how can Peeta’s children come to play here now? Could I let my children literally play on the graves of their ancestors?_ I’m face-first in the grass, in the dirt, when I hear a delicate buzzing by my right ear. A honeybee has come to pay me a visit.

_You make me wanna sing_

_With all the joy you bring—_

_You look like gold._ __

That bee always has the power to remind me that rebirth is possible. That bees will bring the pollen to the flowers and the trees, and that we’ll have dandelions and primroses in the spring again. Flowers will grow in the meadow in honor of our ancestors, and soon their remains shall become a part of the soil and return to the earth, never really leaving us. So our children’s children can continue to enjoy pastures full of dandelions. Perhaps this is the best legacy District Twelve could have left. The bee plays around my braid, encouraging me to stand up and plod on. _Keep calm and carry on!_ Effie chirps in my head. I look back to the men, handing what’s left of our ancestors with such reverence. They see me, and wave. I wave, and give them our three-fingered sign of respect and farewell with my left hand. They raise theirs in response, in understanding, and I continue into the forest.

 _“The woods are lovely, dark and deep, but I have promises to keep-- and miles to go before I sleep,_ ” I sing as I traipse across the forest. I remember my father singing Prim and me that song. He said it was a poem, long before the Dark Days. I’ve had no luck with the tracker jackers’ nests today. I thought that I spotted one, high in an old oak, and far out enough on a branch that I could theoretically light a wet fire under it and smoke them out into sleep, but lighting a fire in such dry conditions is dangerous, so I refrain and move on. A nagging suspicion in the back of my head tells me that I’ve likely taken down most of the nests in the immediate vicinity (my current count is at eighteen!), and I won’t be able to press further into the forest until late fall or early winter. I just want one more kill, you know? Before Old Man Winter gets ‘em. I then glumly recall that tracker jackers are impervious to extreme heat or cold—they might not like it, but it won’t kill them either. The only things that can destroy the little bastards are fire and water. _And I’ll see to that._

_Like the rays down from the sun_

_When a new day has just begun--_

_You look like gold._

I decide that the forest is wasted for the day, and I’m wilting, so I start heading back to the lake to do some fishing. For no reason in particular—mostly just because I _can_ —I start running. I’m running like a deer across the forest bed, hurdling logs and ducking under branches and bouncing off well-placed rocks. I have good leaf cover overhead, and my world is tinted in hues of green and brown and gold. It’s delightful. Until I leap on an old log and my foot goes right through, right through to the ground and kicks something hard. My immediate thought is that I’ve broken or sprained my ankle so badly that I can’t feel how much it hurts. My second panic attack is that I’ve stumbled upon a hidden tracker jacker nest and I am wholly and utterly fucked.

My ears are buzzing, and I’m straining to hear the sounds of the enraged tracker jackers, but there’s none to be had. I shake my head in disbelief, and pull my foot out from the log with a little bit of elbow grease. It would appear that I’ve actually just crushed a very ordinary abandoned honeybee nest. It’s like killing a placemat. I don’t see any bees, either, so I pick up the nest gingerly to examine it. It’s about the size of two soccer balls, and weighs about fifteen pounds. Something sticky is seeping on my hand. It’s amber-colored and smells clover-y; stupidly, I give it a lick. Honey! I’ve discovered honey! _Beetee would be so proud of me, I’m like a rocket scientist!_ I think. A small victory today! As I tuck it into the burlap sack and move onto the lake.

_I've been fooled before,_

_But now I know._

_I've made the mistake in the past,_

_But now I know the difference_

_From gold and brass._

By the time I reach the lake, I’ve stripped myself of all my clothes, and I don’t give a damn who sees me. In fact, since I can’t see anyone around me, I make a point of it to run and jump into the lake, shrieking “ ** _Geronimo!”_** (It was a good idea, at the time.) I’m naked, and it feels so wonderful to be in the cool water on this wretchedly hot summer day. I can feel the smooth rocks and gloppy mud beneath my feet and between my toes, and tiny fish are swimming by and between my legs, grazing my skin with their scales and fins. My hands wrap around some seaweed, and I pull myself down into the water and let out a good scream. Now the little fish are scared, but the bigger ones are nonplussed, rolling their guppy eyes at me. I come up for air, and let my fingers play between my legs for a moment. I briefly swim back to shore to lean against some rocks, to give myself some leverage. My hot little hands find themselves between my hot little thighs, and I let my fingers explore myself in the cool water. “Peeta,” I whisper, “right there.” My hand flicks my nub faster.

“Peeta,” I moan, “deeper.” And my fingers oblige and enter my womanhood, one at a time.

“Peeta,” I groan, “faster.” And my fingers pick up the pace within. I’m close to something; my breathing is drawn and heavy.

“Peeta,” I whimper, “harder.” My fingers curl within me as my other hand teases my bundle of nerves until I slip under the water and come to.

 _Well, that was satisfying_ , I think to myself. I make a fishing rod with a stick from the forest and some rope, using berries as bait on my own hooks (a trick I learned from Mags). _Necessity is indeed the mother of invention, I tell myself._ I settle naked on a rock several yards from the shore. _Maybe Peeta is right, maybe being naked isn’t so bad,_ I tell myself. The fish certainly don’t seem to mind. Maybe my performance wooed them over—maybe I _convinced_ them! _I’m such a troll_ , I think. In any case, I catch five trout for Peeta and me this evening. We’ll grill them outside with the brussels sprouts, I suppose. For now, it’s time to get home and make something of this beehive.

_Not the kind of gold you wear,_

_But the kind that can feel my care—_

_You look like gold._

It’s early enough when I get home—maybe two or three in the afternoon, but I don’t want to interrupt Peeta’s art work. I decide to work on this Operation Honey Extraction for the time being. I put the fish in my fridge, and the nest in the sink. I don’t really know what to do with it, so I grab a small hatchet from the mudroom, and start hacking away.

The nest is tougher than I had imagined it would be, and I have to hack at it for a few minutes before it splits open and honey starts oozing out of the neat little catacombs everywhere. The honey is dark golden brown, the color of amber, and I think it smells faintly of dandelions. The wax in the combs is a fine yellow, like the color of freshly churned butter. The contrast is beautiful, and I almost stop dismantling the nest, but it seems like such a waste of their hard work, so I continue. I have it broken into four even pieces, then I break them into four more (roughly) even pieces. I thoroughly scrub my hands and arms in the sink, and gather eight mason jars. I stick each comb in the top of one of the jars—I know the comb is too wide/big to fit in the jar, but in the upright position, the honey can drip down, leaving the wax behind.

I set all eight jars up on the kitchen table, with newspaper guarding the mahogany underneath. The honey is slowly dripping down the combs, down the side of the jars. It’s thick and rich and gloppy—there must be more to this honey process than I remember. I do know that tomorrow I will have to strain it through a cheesecloth several times to get out any particles, and then I have to boil it to remove any impurities, and then strain it again (while it’s still boiling hot) for clarity. Whew. It’ll be a good project to keep me busy, I reckon.

_Some shine when the day is new,_

_But fade when the day is through--_

_But you look like gold._

I head upstairs for a long, cold shower. Usually I love my lonely showers, where I can talk to myself and pleasure myself, and not a soul is around to hear. But since I’ve been staying with Peeta, I’ve begun to miss his company and rely on his calming presence. I don’t like being alone as much as I used to. I’m at my house so rarely now—we only come over here to eat dinner and sleep. I come around more often, obviously, to change and such, but this giant house is increasingly unused. I shower quickly, but this just aggravates my sunburn. I haven’t had a sunburn in years. _On the bright side—no tan lines!_ I force myself to apply aloe as best I can and I dress in a loose linen sundress. I plait my hair in two braids and wrap them across my head, like a crown. At least I look _acceptable_ for dinner this evening.

When Greasy Sae arrives to make dinner, I quickly explain to her that we should cook and eat at Peeta’s tonight, because I’m distilling the honey and my kitchen is a disaster. She kindly explains that my kitchen is always a disaster and sort of rolls her eyes at me, but I know she is happier cooking in his kitchen. Peeta’s kitchen has everything one could possibly need to cook, and it’s neat and organized and clean. Peeta’s kitchen is just wonderful; he’s painted it a warm orange—the color of sunset—because it is his favorite room in the house. Everything is cheery and bright, and he even has curtains and blinds at his window—the big one that looks over the back porch and into his yard. But that which I love the most is his tiled backsplash—a mosaic of District Eleven. The first time I saw his kitchen, I asked where he got the mosaic on its tiny tiles 

“I painted it,” Peeta replied proudly. “It was part of my recovery process in Thirteen. Painting was the only way I could communicate, some days.”

“Oh…,” I replied quietly, “I didn’t mean to upset you or bring up bad memories…” Peeta dismissed me with the wave of his hand.

“They’re not bad, they’re good. I met with District Eleven refugees in Thirteen—they told me all of their favorite things from home. That’s why you see the wheat and the grains and the orchards,” he answered with a big smile. “The people from Eleven—they really helped me heal with Rue and Thresh. Whenever I see this mural, I think about them and their great sacrifice, and suddenly, I’m at peace.” I nod. It helps me heal, too. Peeta is just so much better with words, with his hands. With EVERYTHING 

_I've been wrong before,_

_But now I know._

_I've made mistakes in the past,_

_But now I know the difference_

_From gold and brass._

So tonight when we eat dinner at Peeta’s, everything seems better, calmer, and more relaxed. I don’t know if it’s because dinner was particularly good, or if it’s because Peeta’s house is so clean, or maybe we all just had really good days, I don’t know. We make pleasant small talk—but abstain from telling Haymitch about Peeta’s incident (what he doesn’t know won’t hurt him, exactly). Peeta raves about the freshness of the trout. Haymitch makes fun of my adventures with honey. It’s all very milquetoast this evening. Haymitch wanders off to pass out in the living room, and Peeta and I do the dishes quietly, efficiently. Tonight I can’t stop looking at how strong his back is, his taut muscles rippling under his shirt. 

Surprisingly, Haymitch is not only awake, but alert when we come in the living room to work on the Tributes book. And he’s brought us a stack of untouched newspapers, some still bound with twine.

“I want to put all of the Tributes who came before you two in this book, too. Even if I couldn’t help them or save them, I was their Mentor and their only link back home from the Games. AND EVEN THOUGH I FAILED THEM, I WANT TO REMEMBER THEM!” Haymitch states, adamantly.

“That sounds like a great idea, Haymitch,” Peeta says warmly. I smile and nod in agreement. This is part of the healing process for Haymitch, Dr. Aurelius says, but we can’t force him to do anything he doesn’t want. So this is a good sign.

“I brought a newspaper from every Reaping after mine, with the two Tributes’ photos and obituaries and everything,” Haymitch slurred.

“So, how do you want me to paint the picture?” Peeta asks gently.

Haymitch purses his lips. “I dunno, I want to use the pictures from the newspaper—unless the kid was ugly, then you can paint ‘em. And if I have a good story, maybe you can draw a picture.” Haymitch nods in order to agree with himself. “And you, sweetheart, you get to be my ghostwriter. Very glamorous. Make it sound pretty.” I smile and nod. We start with Maysilee, and go from there.

Haymitch actually heads home to his own bed instead of sleeping on Peeta’s couch, and we head upstairs at midnight, exhausted from the day. Neither of us wants to rehash Peeta’s episode, and I’m still afraid to talk about the bees. We’re dancing around the truth, but it’s okay for now. It’s cooler tonight as we crawl into bed. Peeta is shirtless, but he notices how I’m wincing when my flaming skin comes in contact with the fabric of his old shirt that I’m sleeping in.

_You look like gold to me_

_And I'm down on bending knees,_

_You look like gold._

“Kat, your sunburn—it’s terrible,” he said, pulling me into him as gently as possible. I whimper in pain a little bit, and he lets go.

“No, Peeta, it will hurt more if you’re not holding me,” I cry. His eyes look so concerned in the moonlight.

“What can I do to make you feel better?” he finally says. I have an answer he’s really going to enjoy.

“Peet, I need you to rub aloe all over my body. Everywhere. I promise I’ll change the sheets tomorrow, but just for tonight, please put the aloe on.” I’m giving him explicit permission to touch my naked body all over. _Nay, I am **demanding** that he rub aloe all over my naked body_. Peeta just smiles. I wail weakly as he peels his shirt off my red skin.

“I like this healing business,” he smirks. He gets some aloe from his bathroom, and then starts rubbing it on my arms, his hands grazing the sides of my breasts. I’m barely breathing as he applies the aloe to my breasts, cupping and examining each one in turn, gently rubbing it all over my stomach and down to my hip bones. Before turning his attention to my back, he plants a small kiss on each of my nipples, suckling with a feather-touch, and I let out a squeak. Peeta spends extra time on my throbbing shoulders and tailbone, before generously aloe-ing my rear end. His hands are soft and good at what they do, skilled after years of shaping loaves of dough and frosting cakes.

“How did your ass get burned, Kat?” he jokes.

“I told you—no tan lines!” I quip back. I need his hands on my body again.

He pulls me into his lap with my legs straddling him, and aloes my legs from the ankles up. My body feels weightless and cooler already. His hands move smoothly up my thighs, not missing an inch with the aloe. I can feel the moisture pooling between my legs and the blood flowing to my loins. Peeta obviously takes notice, and looks into my eyes as he delicately applies aloe to my place where the sun isn’t supposed to shine. His hand stops between my legs for a minute, resting on my quivering thighs, and then I lean in and kiss him with every fiber of my being. _Smooth, sweetheart._ I feel him grow hard against my thigh as he deepens our kiss and slips a finger inside of me. My insides clench in the best way possible as his finger pumps in and out of my wetness. He sighs against my shoulder and another finger goes in, gently curling in my core as his thumb presses against my nub. I lean my forehead against his blond hair, and I can’t decide if I burning up because I have a sunburn, or if it’s because Peeta is touching me in the best place ever. I shake against him as he withdraws his fingers, lingering on my slit between the folds.

“Better?” Peeta asks. I just nod, and pull him into another kiss. We lay down on our sides, our lips never parting one another’s, and I let his tongue into my mouth as he gently begins to devour me. I let my hunger overcome my prudish sensibilities, and let myself devour him right back. I’m cradled against his chest, and I swear that his skin on mine is rejuvenating. Our kisses grow gentler, longer, and deeper; he nips my bottom lip, and I mew for him. We must have fallen asleep like that, kissing, because when we wake up, our lips are pressed to one another’s. And my skin is no longer on fire—but Peeta’s lips upon mine are an inferno.

_And I just want you to know_

_To me you mean so much more_

_Than all the gold—_

_You look like gold._ __


	10. Steal My Kisses

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Peeta takes Katniss on a tour of the new District Twelve, and public displays of affection abound.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Disclaimer: The Hunger Games belong to Ms. Suzanne Collins, Scholastic, and Lionsgate Entertainment. The Secret Life of Bees belongs to Sue Monk Kidd. Steal My Kisses belongs to Ben Harper.
> 
> Thanks to: SavannahHershey, my beta and fangirl-in-crime, and orea domina!
> 
> Rating: MA for mature language, violence, and explicit sexual situations.
> 
> A/N: I wonder what everyone else thinks District Twelve looks like as it rebuilds. I see it as a small town in the Blue Ridge, nestled into the mountains and very picturesque. (Actually, I think it looks like the little Alsatian village from Beauty and the Beast, but that’s Little Pippi talking.) In my head canon, Peeta’s been very involved in rebuilding the town and his bakery, but Katniss has been avoiding the city center because it holds so many painful memories for her. I hope that everything regarding Peeta’s healing and Katniss’ hobby are starting to come together. As always, read, review, and enjoy; thank you!

_I pulled into Nashville, Tennessee,_

_But you wouldn't even come around to see me._

As summer comes to pass, District Twelve seems to rise like a phoenix from the ashes. More families are coming home, and real progress is finally being made in town. The first thing they (the Capitol) built was of course the medicine factory, but the residents of District Twelve aren’t one to go down without a fight. Since last fall, they’ve been building at a frantic pace, stockpiling supplies during the winter and prefabricating materials inside during the spring rains. They build day and night, even in this excruciating heat and humidity. When I return to town with Peeta for the first time since I came home, I’m astonished at how much has been accomplished in less than a year.

(I’ve been avoiding it because, simply put, I’ve been feeling too guilty. Dr. Aurelius tells me that the only way I will overcome the guilt is by going back into the world. That bastard is always right.)

On one side of the square, District Twelve has a new police headquarters (since we no longer have Peacekeepers, apparently) and a volunteer fire station. There’s even an official post office and bank—both firsts for us.

In front of the new town fountain, we have a City Hall, replacing the Justice Building. (Apparently, this is where we’re now supposed to go for our all-important documents and general bureaucratic needs. You can take the bureaucracy out of the Capitol, but you’ll never take the Capitol out of the bureaucracy.) It’s vast and impressive, but instead of being stone-cold marble and concrete like the Hall of Justice of yore, it’s brick and slightly more inviting. Less intimidating. (“Federal-style,” Peeta calls it.)

On the other side of the square, we have a library, and behind the library, a new school for the children of Twelve. Our district has never had a library, and school had never been so convenient for the children. (Now they won’t have an excuse for skipping class.) A new hospital is going up, down a new road. (We’ve never had real roads connecting everything in Twelve, either.)

_And since you’re headin' up to Carolina,_

_You know I'm gonna be right there behind ya._

“It’s like they’re making it easy for us, Peeta,” I say quietly as we stroll down the freshly cobbled sidewalks. It doesn’t even look like District Twelve. It looks like a town from one of Peeta’s drawings, or one of my father’s old books. Like a fairy tale. He squeezes my hand tightly.

“Katniss, every able-bodied man, woman, and child has been working in rebuilding town since before we got back,” Peeta answers quietly. “For their sake, this needs to feel like home.” And just like that, he makes me feel guilty again—but he doesn’t for a moment let go of my hand.

“It’s nice,” I reply quietly. Peeta nods in reply, smiling broadly. Even though everything is new and clean and bright, it feels like something made from our own hands. Peeta is eagerly leading me somewhere, where I’m not sure—maybe back into civilization, back into reality—but I like where it’s headed.

_'Cause I always have to steal my kisses from you,_

_Always have to steal my kisses from you._

“Katniss, close your eyes,” Peeta says, stopping me suddenly in the middle of the street. I squint at him in the sun. _Is he fucking kidding me? Close my eyes?_ I don’t trust anything I can’t see.

“No, Peeta, I can’ttt—“ I protest, but he stops my words with a quick kiss. (A kiss that finds his tongue in my mouth.)

“Katniss, please, just trust me,” he coos as he cups my cheeks in his hands. I can’t deny him. Public displays of affection have never been my thing, but things I let this boy do—he practically gets away with murder. _Public displays of murder._

_Now I love to feel that warm southern rain,_

_Just to hear it fall is the sweetest sounding thing._

“Always,” I sigh, squeezing my eyes shut, holding onto his hand for dear life. He leads me down the road for a hundred yards or so, weaving his fingers through mine. I’m sure everyone is staring at us—the Girl on Fire and the Boy with the Bread haven’t been seen together in public for over a year. I would ordinarily be self-conscious—with anyone except Peeta. I go with him, giggling like a schoolgirl.

“Follow me, Kat, stay with me.” We turn left, and now we’re practically running. When he stops, I run into his chest with a satisfying sound, wrapping my arms around his neck, feeling the hair on his neck in my fingers. “Alright, open,” Peeta says, gleefully pulling me into his arms.

When I open my eyes, I’m in another town square—called the Hob (or so says the great stone gate that we just ran through). There are shops and buildings on either side of me, and ahead of us is a great market. The square itself is empty, but not for lack of purpose.

_And to see it fall on your simple country dress--_

_It's like heaven to me,_

_I must confess._

“Do you like it?” Peeta asks quietly, wrapping his arms across my stomach and pulling my back to his chest, resting his chin on my shoulder.

At first, for a few minutes, I don’t even have words. I’m mute. The tears are rolling down my face, against his, and his lips brush them away. I clutch his hand so hard I think it must be turning purple. “I love it,” I finally breathe quietly, “it’s so perfect.” He smiles against the base of my neck.

He holds out my right hand with his, gesturing toward the square. “This is going to be an open market, weather-permitting,” Peeta explains, showing me their vision of a new, vibrant District Twelve. I nod, swallowing hard. It’s hard to imagine commerce in Twelve without the old blackened Hob, but this is so open and inviting and OUTSIDE, and I’m entranced.

Peeta’s left hand guides mine so that we’re looking at the large, multi-storied market in front of us.

“That’s not finished yet, it’s not safe to go in, but it’ll be done by winter,” he says. “That’s the indoor market. Inside, we have skylights, so that the light can pour in. I think District Twelve needs to be reminded of the sun, after all the time we spent in the dark.” Something inside of me crumbles, and I turn to Peeta’s chest, burying my face in his unbuttoned shirt and his chest hair as ugly sobs wrack my body. He looks panicked.

_'Cause I always have to steal my kisses from you,_

_Always have to steal my kisses from you._

“Oh no, you don’t like it?” he whispers. _Why does he always expect the worst from me?_ I shake my head furiously.

“No, Peeta—“ I croak, “I LOVE IT. Is this what you’ve been working on, every day?” Peeta nods. I kiss him, tears pouring down my face and into our mouths, and he hungrily feeds my emotions.

“I had a vision. I drew it. I brought it to the architects and contractors, and the guys, and we all agreed that this—this is what we needed to bring home,” Peeta says. His voice is so hopeful.

“I’m so proud of you,” I choke out. And I am. Peeta Mellark, the fucking patron saint of District Twelve has done it again—reduced me to a hot, crying mess in public. But he’s not done yet.

“And there,” he gestures, pointing to one of the shops on the left, “is the new Mellark bakery. My bakery.” Peeta, in this moment, is swelling with pride and happiness and relief, and I have the urge to throw him down in the street, rip his clothes off, and do terrible things with him inside of me. The only answer I can give him is more kisses.

_Now I've been hangin' around you for days,_

_But when I lean in you just turn your head away._  

“ _Our_ bakery, Peeta,” I remind him softly. Peeta seems to like this response, and rewards me with even more kisses. 

“ _Our_ bakery, I like that,” he kisses the tip of my nose. “I didn’t know you could bake.” I bite his lip in frustration. 

“No, that’s true, I can’t bake,” I sigh, “but I’m good with numbers. I’ll take care of the books.” Peeta looks at me quizzically.

“I didn’t know that you were good at math in school,” he teases. I stop smiling.

_Oh no, you didn't mean that;_

_She said, “I love the way you think,_

_But I hate the way you act.”_

“When my father died, Peeta, I had to take over our family accounts and the money, because my mother didn’t know how to do it and wouldn’t bother learning. If I didn’t learn bookkeeping, Prim and me would have starved,” I say under my breath. I don’t want to talk about it, and the smirk drops from Peeta’s face. He kisses the top of my forehead. 

“Okay, you’ll be the bookkeeper, and I’ll be the baker, I like that,” Peeta says, kissing my eyelids. “And I’ll pay you in bread.”

“ _Bread?_ ” I jest, giving him my best offended expression.

“Among other things,” he laughs. 

“Is that a loaf in your oven, or are you just excited to see me?” I giggle. People are definitely staring at us now. But I don’t care. Peeta just showed me our future, and it’s not so bad. I think I can live with it.

“It’s a little bit of A, a little bit of B,” he whispers into my ear huskily. We start sauntering home as the sun dips below the mountains and the world of District Twelve is basked in the peach light of sunset. 

_'Cause I always have to steal my kisses from you,_

_Always have to steal my kisses from you._


	11. Wagon Wheel

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Peeta is grieving his family before the opening of his bakery.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Disclaimer: The Hunger Games belong to Ms. Suzanne Collins, Scholastic, and Lionsgate Entertainment. The Secret Life of Bees belongs to Sue Monk Kidd. Wagon Wheel belongs to Old Crow Medicine Show and Bob Dylan.
> 
> Thanks to: SavannahHershey, my beta and fangirl-in-crime, and orea domina! Oh yes, and Everlark Pearl!
> 
> A/N: No one ever really writes about how Peeta feels about losing his family or how he copes with it or heals. I’m sure it’s really important to him, since he seems like a family-oriented man. (He’s such an emotive person, and I think he’s a train wreck mess when it comes to his family, personally.) I’d like to think that Katniss helps him, but I think she has difficulty at first understanding his need, since she’s so shut off from her emotions. Thank you for your reviews and criticisms; read and enjoy!

_Headed down south to the land of the pines_

_And I'm thumbin' my way into North Caroline;_

_Starin' up the road,_

_Pray to God I see headlights._

Patience is a virtue—one that I’m sorely lacking. I remember being a child, and learning how to write, and how dreadfully bad my script was. I remember being sent home from school with a note from my teacher regarding my poor handwriting; Peeta, it may be noted, had perfect cursive from day one. I remember my mother, patiently sitting with me night by night by the fire as my father made more arrows and she worked on my penmanship. Her letters, so perfectly formed, so delicate, and yet so defined. My handwriting was chicken scratch at best, but I wanted to please her, so night after night, we practiced. My mother once joked that this was an impractical endeavor and I would never need nice handwriting, but my father reminded her that Katniss Everdeen was going places and would behave as such. Patience was my mother’s virtue—ambition, my father’s.

I don’t know why I remember this particular instance of my stubbornness, as I sit hunched over a desk at Peeta’s bakery. Maybe it’s because my hands were cramping from hours of carefully copying Peeta’s menu into a ledger. Maybe it’s because I’d fallen out of a tree this morning. Maybe it’s because I hadn’t slept very well, due to the nightmares of lost children and mutts. But Peeta says it’s because I received another joyless letter from my mother, and it sits heavily on my shoulders. I let out a long sigh and Peeta can’t help by notice my deep breath from across the small office above the bakery.

_I made it down the coast in seventeen hours,_

_Pickin' me a bouquet of dogwood flowers._

_And I'm a hopin' for Raleigh,_

_I can see my baby tonight._

The bakery is opening in a month, and there is much practical work to be done. Peeta wakes early in the morning to come in and bake countless loaves and cookies and cakes and pies; he claims he’s breaking in the ovens, but I know how much he loves just feeding the people returning home. He works long hours, but always comes home on time for dinner. I join him now in the afternoons, after spending my morning hours in the woods. As promised, I keep the books; or rather, I am preparing the books to be kept. I list every item that Peeta plans on selling, then list the quantity made versus the quantity sold. He gives me a price and a sales goal, and I use my best handwriting to neatly note everything. The routine is quiet and simple and necessary, but there’s something invigorating about actually engaging in this way with Peeta, helping to rebuild our home.

Over the course of the spring and summer, I’d destroyed twenty tracker nests; I knew I would not have more success until later in the fall and winter, when the cold and snow lull the little bastards into a false sense of security. Now I spend my mornings gathering herbs and berries, as well as the late-blooming summer fruits and vegetables. Some mornings I fish and set traps for the fresh water crabs and prawns that live in the lake. I also find that the honeybees are starting to abandon their old nests as fall approaches, and I collect the old hives and bring them to my home in the Victors’ Village. I extract and distill the honey and wax, keeping some of it for myself, and the rest I give to Greasy Sae. The pseudo-beekeeping keeps me busy in the morning, and I don’t think Peeta likes it 

_So rock me, mama, like a wagon wheel,_

_Rock me, mama, anyway you feel._

_Hey, mama, rock me._

_Rock me, mama, like the wind and the rain,_

_Rock me, mama, like a south-bound train,_

_Hey, mama, rock me._

That’s where some of this awkwardness comes from. One night, Peeta came home exhausted from the bakery and I was busy breaking apart a hive in my kitchen. A bee must have escaped, and it tormented Peeta, chasing him around the living room.

“GODDAMMIT, KATNISS, WHY DO YOU HAVE TO BRING THESE DAMN THINGS HOME?” Peeta yelled at me, completely enraged by the bee.

“WHAT THE HELL IS YOUR PROBLEM?” I shouted back, “IT’S A FUCKING BEE. IT CAN’T HURT YOU.”

“DON’T YOU FUCKING UNDERSTAND?!” he cried, putting his hands over his ears desperately, like Annie.

And then Peeta’s eyes flashed dark and dilated, and the veins in his throat and arms started pulsing with angry, hot blood. He clutched the back of a kitchen chair for a good five minutes before he could raise his head and look at me. I’d stopped everything I was doing, and just looked at him with regret and sadness. I’d triggered an episode. Well, rather, the bee had triggered an episode. Peeta allowed his breaths to become deep and even before he spoke to me.

“Katniss, I’m sorry, I know it’s just a bee, but I can’t help it if they remind me of the tracker jackers—“ he croaked, and the words cracked in his throat. I rushed to his arms, stood on my tiptoes, and planted as many small kisses as I could around his broad jaw line. He let me kiss him, and I knew the moment had passed when he wrapped his arms about my waist and deepened the kiss.

“They scare me, Kat,” Peeta said gently. “And I know they shouldn’t, and they do anyway. They trigger something in me that I can’t control.” I nodded into his shoulder, clutching the back of his shirt, feeling every sinew in his upper back and shoulder, reminding me that he was very much alive and here. “And I don’t know if I like this new hobby of yours, with the bees.”

“I’m sorry, Peeta, I didn’t think about that,” I apologized quietly. _When will I ever stop owing this boy?_ I wondered.

“It’s okay,” he said, holding me closer, “I’m a work in progress, too, Kat.”

_Runnin' from the cold up in New England,_

_I was born to be a fiddler in an old-time stringboard;_

_My baby plays the guitar--_

_I pick a banjo now._

We hadn’t discussed that incident since that evening; that night, we just went to bed and peeled off our clothes in the damp summer heat and kissed each other until the sun came up, as if each kiss was an apology for something we’d done to one another in the past. I now made sure to finish my beekeeping in the morning and check the house for any stray bees before I returned to the bakery and before Peeta returned home.

And now, Peeta knew that I spent my mornings in the forests amongst the bees and then in the kitchen, attempting to learn their secrets and tease out their honey and wax and put them to better use. I learned how to distill the honey into a jar, and then boil it and run it through a cloth until it was smooth and viscous and nearly translucent. I used the plant book to try and figure out which bees made which honey with which plant pollen. I watched the bees in the woods to see which trees they frequented, in hope that I could learn their ways and thus more accurately label their honey. It took every ounce of my talent as a hunter to be as quiet as a small animal and watch the bees through the cracks of trees and sunlight in the woods. I must have done a good job, because almost every week Peeta and I had something new to add to the plant book.

I also learned how to scrape out the beeswax from the combs, melt it down, strain it, and distill it into something useable for candles or medicine or other purposes. Greasy Sae knows what do with it once she got the mason jar in her hands; I know that she sold it to people, in particular the new healers in town. I only wish I could learn how to turn the wax into something useful. My new hobby was peaceful and time-consuming, and I felt at peace with my place in the forest as a gatherer as opposed to a hunter. I wanted nothing more than to talk about it with Peeta, but I knew it would do nothing but set him on edge. But I know that I upset Peeta as much as it is, so I let sleeping dogs lie. I liked being busy, with the beekeeping and the bakery, and I liked being with the boy with the bread.

_Oh, the North-country winters keep a-gettin' me now,_

_Lost my money playin' poker so I had to up and leave._

_But I ain't a-turnin' back_

_To livin' that old life no more._

So this morning when I sigh, Peeta senses that something is on my mind, and I know something is on his, too. He comes over and wraps his arms around me, grazing my breasts and kissing my neck. I lean back and lay my head against his cheekbone.

“Peeta, I’m tired,” I say quietly. He nods.

“Me, too, Katniss,” Peeta replies, pulling a chair from behind and sitting down next to me. He grasps my left hand in his and gives it a squeeze.

“Am I keeping you awake at night?” I ask, almost afraid of the answer. Peeta gives me the warmest smile, and my heart melts.

“In the best way possible,” he kisses me lightly. “No, I’m sleeping fine. I know you’ve slept better, Kat.” I nod slowly.

“Well then, why are you tired, Peet?” I ask slowly, searching his deep blue eyes for comfort. He shifts uncomfortably.

“I’m nervous!” Peeta blurts out, “I’m nervous about opening the bakery and what everyone is going to think! About what my family would think—if—they… were still here!” Genuine tears spill over his eyes and his head falls into my lap. All I can do is rub his back as great sobs wrack his giant body and his tears pour into my thighs. I rub his back the way my mother rubbed mine when I was a small child, hoping to impart a small degree of comfort to him. I run my hands through his tousled blond hair, and let the edge of my braid graze the nape of his neck.

_So rock me, mama, like a wagon wheel,_

_Rock me, mama, anyway you feel._

_Hey, mama, rock me._

_Rock me, mama, like the wind and the rain,_

_Rock me, mama, like a south-bound train,_

_Hey, mama, rock me._

Now Peeta’s on his knees, arms wrapped around my waist, his face buried in my lap. As awkward and uncomfortable as it looks, I could care less if anyone saw us right now.

“Sssh, sssh, sssh, Peet, it’s okay, it’s okay,” I murmur. He looks up at me, and his eyes are red from crying and bright blue with emotion.

“Katniss! THEY’RE NEVER COMING HOME! NEVER! They’re out there, buried in that meadow, and I never even got to say GOODBYE! And you, at least you HAVE your mother, and you won’t even acknowledge her existence—“ he bursts out. I feel a tear slide out of my own eyes. “Gale saved your family—and where the fuck is mine? Mine is back with the earth.” His body is overcome with sobs again, and I slip to the floor with him, cradling him to my chest.

“I’ll never forgive Gale, Peeta, never, not as long as there is a breath in my body—“ I sob. He just nods, bunching my shirt in his hands, flailing against my hips.

 _Oh my God_ , I think, _how could I have been so fucking selfish?_ He’s right—his mother, his father, his handsome brothers—all gone. And Peeta was right on a second account—Gale saved my family (maybe only because I asked him to), and no one saved the Mellarks. They died right there, incinerated in the their own bakery, like an oven. Peeta’s father, with the kind eyes, and his laughing brothers, and even his intimidating mother. Peeta would never hear their voices or rejoice in their sight or feel their embrace. He never even saw their bodies—and there they all were, the Mellarks in a mass grave to our people by the lake. Now I don’t know who is crying harder—Peeta, or me.

_Walkin' to the south out of Roanoke_

_I caught a trucker out of Philly--_

_Had a nice long toke._

_But he's a-headed west from the Cumberland Gap_

_To Johnson City, Tennessee._

“What I wouldn’t give to feel the back of my mother’s hand on my cheek, or bake bread with my father, or wrestle and joke with my brothers. What I wouldn’t give-- Katniss, you have no idea, just to hold them against me,” he cries, pressing his face further into my lap. “And sometimes—this bakery—it’s too much— _it smells like them_.” It’s all I can do keep rubbing his back and keep humming Rue’s four-note melody. “Katniss, I don’t want to _disappoint_ them—I just want them to be proud of me. I want to do something _worthy_ of their _memory_.”

“Peeta, Peeta, Peeta,” I say, like a prayer. “Of course they would be proud of you—wherever they are, they’re proud of you, I just know it—“ He knows as well as I do that’s an empty promise.

“The only reason I keep going, Kat, is because I love you the way I loved them. And I hope that someday, we have a family and our children love us unconditionally. That’s the best legacy I can give my family at this point. Even more important than our bakery. Family, Katniss, that’s all that matters—family. My family is gone, your family is gone—but we have each other. Our family. And when I think about that, it’s suddenly okay. I can live with myself. I’m just not as strong as I used to be, Katniss,” Peeta says quietly, laying soft wet kisses on my cheeks. “If the only thing stronger than fear is hope, than the only thing greater than death is love.” All I can do is nod and give him a wet kiss back.

“I’m sorry, Peeta, I… I wasn’t thinking about you. I’m so sorry,” I insist, hoping he sees the sincerity through my half-assed apology.

He shakes his head furiously. “It’s alright, Kat. The littlest things can set me off—like your bees. I need to grow up and move on, and keep things in perspective—“ I stop his self-deprecating soliloquy with a deep kiss. For once, I have something to really say.

_And I gotta get a-move on before the sun--_

_I hear my baby callin' my name_

_And I know that she's the only one._

_And if I die in Raleigh,_

_At least I will die free._

“No, Peeta, I’m sorry and you’re right. I’m the one who isn’t keeping things in perspective—if you need to look at the little picture, then I need to look at the big picture. And you’re the only important person in my big picture. And you’re right—and I want all of those things with you, someday. It’s just not going to be easy now. And sometimes you have to call me out on it,” I apologize, all of the sincere words coming out in a stream of word vomit. His blue eyes are staring into mine, all the way down into my soul, it seems.

“You are my family, Peeta. I love our family. And we’re not starting over-- we’re getting started,” I tell him what I know he wants to hear and what I know I need to say, to get off my chest. Peeta is my family, Peeta is my world—he is my everything, and I can’t exist without him. I was a goner, and I never had a chance with or without him.

“So, we’ll be a family?” Peeta says tentatively, breathlessly. “Because, Katniss, that’s all I’ve ever wanted with you.”

“Always,” I whisper, and he kisses me. I know what I’m promising him—children and grandchildren. “I’m not lying to you, Peeta, I’m not deceiving you, I’m not leading you on—“ His needy mouth cuts me off. _Hard promises to keep, indeed._ Peeta kisses me until I’m lying breathless on the floor with him pinned on top of me, and I’m pulling him down to my greedy lips by his shirt collar.

“I promise I’ll write my mother,” I get out between our heated kisses. He responds by nipping my neck. And then I have another idea.

“Peeta?”

“Mmm,” he moans as he works his way around my collarbone. I shift with anticipation beneath his pelvis and hate to break our kissing session, but I sit up on one arm. His eyes question mine.

“Peeta, would it make you feel better if I started doing the beekeeping stuff at Haymitch’s house? Away from you,” I ask hopefully and brush his hair off his forehead with a trembling hand. A small smile spreads across Peeta’s face, and he blushes.

“Yeah, it would, actually,” he laughs sheepishly. I push some of his golden hair out his golden eyelashes. (I could get lost in those eyelashes.)

“Good,” I say with a degree of resolution. Peeta kisses me and I’m lying on the floor again, and his hands are creeping up my thighs. I don’t want this moment to end, but he breaks our kisses and pulls me up into his lap.

“You go home, I’ll finish up here and be there soon, alright?” Peeta says, kissing the last of my tears away from my eyelashes. I wrinkle my nose, but acquiesce by standing up and extending my hand to him, pulling him up with me.

“You look like a rabbit when you do that, Kat,” Peeta teases, pinching my cheeks.

“What do you have to do here, anyway?” I ask as I shut the ledger and put it away in the desk.

“A couple more interviews. A few people from District Ten, and some older kids,” Peeta replies, reaching for their applications on his desk. _He’s doing everything by the book, Effie would be so proud_ , I think. As more people return to Twelve from Thirteen, we have residents moving in from other districts, and in particular, Nine, Ten, and Eleven. (Who knew that our district would ever be desirable? A good place to raise a family? Smells like bullshit to me.) The people from Nine know everything about grain and are prolific bakers (according to Peeta); the people from Ten know everything about dairy and make a mean cheese (Peeta’s words, not mine); and the people from Eleven know everything about fruits and vegetables, and make delicious pies.

Peeta is bringing in older teenagers to train them as bakers and apprentices, and he even made a deal with the school system so that they can get credits in trade mastery. (“Everyone needs a trade!” he tells me, with excitement and ambition in his eyes.) I know that he just loves spending time teaching people what he loves most. Peeta is happy and eager to bring them on in his bakery. I was so proud of him when he admitted that not only could he not do it all by himself and that he wanted help, but that he wanted to hire more people than his mother ever would have and pay them fair wages. Peeta isn’t threatened by them or their talents, and just wants to have the best bakery in all of Panem. I think it’s an act of kindness, for him to give them jobs and good wages and a purpose. Peeta just shrugs and says that’s what his father would have wanted. Peeta Mellark, the Patron Saint of District Twelve.

_So rock me, mama, like a wagon wheel,_

_Rock me, mama, anyway you feel._

_Hey, mama, rock me._

_Rock me, mama, like the wind and the rain,_

_Rock me, mama, like a south-bound train,_

_Hey, mama, rock me._


End file.
